My Father's Favourite
by NongPradu
Summary: Pre-series. 11 year-old Sam doesn't want to move away again, so he prays for his family to stay in one place. It's a case of "Be careful what you wish for." Very sick!Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **My Father's Favourite  
**Rating:** T (for the occasional "F" bomb)  
**Disclaimer:** Not for profit. No copyright infringement intended  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, John, OCs, with surprise guest appearances  
**Pairings:** None  
**Word Count:** 8941 (in this chapter)  
**Summary:** Pre-series. 11 year-old Sam is feeling adrift when faced once again with the prospect of moving to a new town to start all over again. When a messenger of God appears in a dream, Sam prays that his family will stay put so they can be safe and normal. It's a case of "be careful what you wish for." Very sick!Dean.

* * *

_May, 1994_

It isn't fair.

Sam skulks in shuffling, scuffing footsteps, kicking a rock with an angry swipe of well-worn second-hand sneakers and following its skip-jumped path, sulking his way home from school with newly-budding anger welling deep within his chest. He grits his teeth and stares hard at the ground, watching the wayward pebble dance ahead of him as he jerks it for another frantic tumble down the sidewalk, Dean nattering along contentedly beside him about some cootie-infested girl, oblivious as always to his little brother's woes. That, or the stupid jerk knows he's upset and is deliberately ignoring it.

"Anyway, she was at least a B-cup. Probably a C," Dean says with an emphatic head nod, his eyebrows raised high in his forehead as if contemplating the sublime nature of bra sizes.

"I'm tellin' you Sammy, high school girls are so much cooler than those tight-asses in middle school."

Like Sam _cares_.

Dean's fifteen now, and apparently that makes him some kind of expert on girls and sex. Dad joked once that Dean got a triple dose of teenage hormones, but Sam thinks (for once) that their father was right. Sam's pretty sure Dean's still a virgin, but if his big brother has his way he won't be for long. It's girls, girls, girls with Dean – morning, noon, and night. When he isn't interacting with them (flirting, getting shot down, or making out with them behind the bleachers in the football field), he's talking about them, or daydreaming about them, or just staring at them as they walk past. Pretty much the only thing that ever draws Dean's one-track mind away from girls is hunting: _that_ he is even more gung-ho about.

And the less Sam thinks about that the better. Because Dean and hunting? It's a can of worms that's only recently been opened, wriggling in Sam's guts and twisting him up inside in ways he never even knew were possible. But Dad loves Dean's enthusiasm. He eats it up. He actively encourages it.

It's wrong. And it's _not fair_.

Dean's failing English. He has a regular detention slot at lunch hour these days, and has been suspended at two different schools in the last six months. He skips classes on a regular basis, got caught shop-lifting at a convenience store two towns back, and generally is about as bad as any kid Sam has ever heard of.

But he's still Dad's favourite because he's a good soldier.

Does Dad care that _Sam_ made the soccer team and won Most Valuable Player at last weekend's game? Does Dad care that _Sam_ has the highest grade in the whole class for Social Studies, English, History, and Science? Does he care that _Sam's_ submission for a writing contest won and was published in the local newspaper? Does he care that _Sam_ auditioned and got the lead role in the school play?

Sam would answer 'no' on all counts, except that in a few cases in the above-noted list John Winchester cares a great deal. He cares, for example, that Sam's soccer games are early on Saturday mornings (which means he has to get up early to drive him there when he could be nursing a perfectly good hangover instead). He cares about 'being a damned chauffeur' to Sam's rehearsals and practices after school. He cares a whole lot about the amount of time Sam devotes to his studies and rehearsals and practices when he _should_ be sparring with his brother, or learning to shoot with the new sawed-off, or practicing his knife-fighting. He cares that Sam is 'wasting his damned time' with his head 'shoved up his ass.'

Did Sam mention that his Dad is a major _jerk_?

So it isn't fair. And Sam, being an eleven year-old bundle of insecurity and angst, is keenly feeling the sting of being a disappointment to his father when he knows he _should_ be making the man proud. Any other father would trade in his left nut (that's what Dean would say) to have Sam for a son. But not John Winchester.

So yeah. Sam's feeling pretty pissed at the moment. And his stupid brother isn't helping matters.

"You're quiet," Dean muses aloud. "Got too much stuff swirling around in that giant geek brain of yours?"

"Shut up Dean," Sam mumbles by way of reply. He doesn't want to talk. Doesn't want to be distracted from his bad mood or cheered up. He's nursing this feeling of resentment. Cradling it to his chest and giving it a safe, warm home where it can fester into something dark and deep and hot.

He doesn't look up, but he can feel his big brother's eyes on him, knows that Dean is studying him now like he always does, trying to get a reading of him so he can figure out what's the matter. Then he'll try to fix it, in his own backward, hardly-helpful way.

"Someone giving you a rough time at school?" he queries at length, scrutinizing with his keen green eyes (which Sam is studiously avoiding with his shuffling and rock-kicking).

"Cos I already told you – just gimme a name and I'll set the little bastard straight."

Sam sighs inwardly but refuses to respond.

"'z'it a girl?" Dean hazards dubiously.

Sam snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes.

""Kay, didn't think so," Dean shrugs, and Sam can hear the smile in his voice. "But I figured I'd ask."

He walks in silence for a full beat before ploughing ahead again.

"So…. If it's not bullies and it's not a girl… Did you—is this like a school thing? Did you fail a test or something?"

Like _that_ would ever happen.

He must have said it out loud because Dean snorts and laughs.

"Yeah, you're right. It was a long shot. So what then? What's got your panties in a twist?"

'_Like you care,'_ Sam wants to say, but doesn't. Mostly because he knows Dean cares. Dean might pretend to be a hardass like Dad, but he always cares about the things that upset Sam. He might not agree with his little brother, but he'll do what he can to make it better. It's his way.

Still, Sam knows that Dean won't agree with him about this. He'll say that Sam's being too sensitive. Probably call him a girl, too. Then he'll explain all the reasons why Dad does what he does, and why Sam's just a selfish little freak who thinks only about himself. But Sam can't help it. He just… He just doesn't want to leave again, for a whole host of very important reasons.

That's what's got this particular eleven year-old in such a tizzy. Being a disappointment in John Winchester's eyes, while doing its number on his youngest son's self-esteem, is something the little boy could live with. He's been doing it long enough that he's learned not to let it get to him too badly. It's just that, the more he excels at school, and the more he flourishes with his grades, with his practices, with his rehearsals, the more Sam craves just the tiniest bit of validation from his old man because _these things matter too_.

And they matter enough to Sam that he really, really, _really_ wants to stay this time. More so than any other time or any other town. Like, he's been praying every night for the last month that God will let them set up roots here forever, like a normal family.

The house they're staying in isn't anything special. It's the top floor of a duplex in a dodgy part of town, literally across the railroad tracks on the outskirts of a beat-down industrial district. The boys have a forty-minute walk to and from school every day and even though it's early May, there's still a bite to the air most days that says Spring isn't yet ready to make way for Summer's warmth. The nights are cool enough that the boys end up sharing a bed more often than not to conserve body heat. But there's a full kitchen and an old box TV that Dean fixed up, and the couch is used but in a well-worn, comfy way that Dean says is "lived in."

It's certainly nothing to brag about, but it's stable and the space is open and both boys have admitted to feeling more at home here than they have anywhere else for a long time. Dad's even got a job working construction for a crew that builds houses in these new residential neighbourhoods on the other side of town. It's steady work, but the scheduling's broken up with each job, which means that Dad can leave town for days at a time to do research or kill the latest evil thing a few towns over.

It's a good set-up: it reminds him of Uncle Bobby with his home base at the salvage yard, or Pastor Jim with his small parish in Blue Earth. Nothing fancy, sure, but stable enough. The boys are still sharing a room, but at least they have their own beds. And when Dad's out of town on a hunt, Dean'll sometimes take Dad's bed to give Sam some privacy (or more likely to seek privacy for himself so he can whack off or something).

Even Dean seems to be liking it here (if the string of girls trailing after him, calling him to talk about who knows what, and giggling at everything he says like he's actually funny, are anything to go by). Sam's got a best friend named Matt whose birthday party in July is going to be a trip to the water park, and he's heard that they have a Festival of Lights in the town square every Christmas, with sleigh rides and hot cocoa and roasted chestnuts.

Sam sighs.

It doesn't have to be perfect. Dad would still be an jerk, and Dean would still be a skirt-chasing ass. But they'd finally belong somewhere, be part of something that was nice and normal. Why can't they have that?

"I just wish we could stay," Sam finally admits with a defeated shrug. He dares to glance up at his big brother, noticing right away that Dean's eyes are downcast, his long lashes casting shadows on his freckled cheeks. Then twin crescent moons of forest green peek up before his heavy lids squint thoughtfully.

"Dad'll probably let us finish up the year here," he offers up, lips pursed together tightly in a thoughtful pout.

_And why is it that he always looks like it takes so much effort to think?_, Sam wonders. Dean's face is a veritable treasure trove of odd expressions, 99% of which are the direct result of the cogs in his head turning at a slow burn. And okay, that's probably not fair. At least 50% of Dean's facial expressions are to express some kind of joke, laugh, or or shine with a _joie de vivre_ that only Dean Winchester would feel living the sucky lives that they live. Then a remaining 30% are devoted to trying and failing to mask his weepy, gooey, hurty centre. Dean's tough, Sam knows, but there are hurts in life that leave a sting, and if you know Dean you know where to look to see it in his eyes. That leaves probably 20% for his various Thinking Faces. His Thinking Faces are made all the more entertaining when coupled with his Thinking Gestures (like the head scratch or thumb-to-lip-tug).

"That'll give us at least, like, two months here," Dean says. "By then your play'll be done, right?"

"But after that," Sam says hopefully. "When the hunt's done, and school is done, I just wish… I want to stay here, Dean. I want to live here, like a real family."

"We _are_ a real family." Dean's got that testy tone to his voice that says he's about a nanosecond away from being seriously pissed off.

"Fine, a normal family then," Sam corrects. "Why can't we be normal and stay in one place?"

Dean scoffs like Sam's just said a dirty word.

"Normal sucks, Sammy. Town like this, most people are fighting to break the hell _away_ from normal. Besides, what Dad does? It's important. It's a rough gig, and sure it might get lonely sometimes, but it saves lives."

_And here we go_, Sam thinks. _We're back to the same old song and dance_. This is precisely why he didn't want to talk about it with Dean. Dean's their father's perfect brainwashed little soldier. Of course Dean doesn't get it.

"I knew you'd side with him," Sam grumbles as he picks up his pace, abandoning the rock that'd been his kicking companion since they left the elementary school.

They don't talk for the remainder of the walk home. Dean trails just slightly behind, giving his little brother space, or maybe just staying out of his way. Sam's secretly glad, because right now he feels like crying.

When they leave this town, things are going to be bad again. They'll have to start over in a new place, make new friends, get new lodgings, and they'll be outsiders again just like they are everywhere they go. And then Dad'll get it in his head to take Dean hunting again, especially with school over for the summer. And then Dean'll… Dean could…

It was scary enough to learn the truth about what Dad does. Sam remembers feeling like nothing would ever be right again when he learned that monsters are real. It's one of those things that changes you, like when normal kids learn there's no Santa. He went from believing the world was one way, only to learn that it's something else entirely. Something darker and scarier than he'd ever imagined. But that was Dad's choice, at least. Dad hunting monsters maybe even felt a bit like balancing the scales a bit, because Dad's big and strong and, according to Dean, 'freakin' indestructible.' Maybe it's a good thing that John Winchester is out there, fighting all those evil things that lurk in the dark, keeping everyone safe.

But Dean's fifteen years old, and much as he might like to tell himself that he's a man now, he's not. Sam _knows_ he's not. 'Cos when Dean got back from that black dog hunt in Minnesota six months ago, he had nightmares about it for weeks afterwards. And Sam caught him crying in the bathroom the night after the hunt, when he and Dad got back from the hospital after having Dean's broken arm reset and casted. Dad might be indestructible, but Dean's only a kid and he breaks just the same as everyone else. Dean could get _killed_ on the next hunt.

What's so wrong with normal, anyway? Why is it Dad's job to keep everyone safe from monsters? How come everyone can't know about monsters and protect themselves? Like having salt lines and protection sigils alongside the smoke detectors and fire extinguishers in their homes? Why does it have to be some big, stupid secret?

Winchester Rule #1: We do what we do and we shut up about it.

'_You wanna spend the rest of your life in a rubber room strapped to a bed in five-point restraints or wearin' a straight jacket, then sure – go right on ahead and tell everyone about the banshee your brother and I banished last week.'_

See? Sam's Dad is a major jerk.

And okay, maybe he gets that people would think that they were crazy if they told them the truth. But it's _the truth_. Eventually they'd realize, wouldn't they?

Sam carries these thoughts deep in his chest, where they swirl up, branch-like, sprouting leaves and buds and juicy, ripe fruit in his head. He almost walks right past the duplex they're living in, but Dean's there in a pinch to cuff him around the head and call him a space cadet.

They don't talk much as the evening progresses. Dean gives Sam his space, making idle chit chat while he stirs a pot of boiling noodles they bought at the Bulk Barn and tends the sauce pan with the canned tomato soup in it, adding spices to taste and killing the time with pointless chatter. Sam does his homework at the kitchen table, makes the odd non-committal grunty sound by way of reply, and basically sticks his nose to his books to avoid interacting with his big brother, the casserole chef extraordinaire.

When the noodle-soup concoction is finished baking in the squeaky-hinged oven, Dean serves up a plate for each of them and leaves the rest (a sizeably larger portion) for Dad. They eat in silence, and Sam has to admit, the food's pretty good. It's hit or miss most days with Dean's cooking (the debacle with the canned salmon and cream of mushroom soup still turns his stomach when he thinks about it), but today's is a definite hit. He even allows himself the indulgence of licking the plate clean. Dean's pleased grin is so bright it almost makes him forget how bummed he is about everything else.

When Sam wakes up at exactly 2:04 to the sight of a man looming over his bed, his first instinct is to scream. He starts like he's just been electrocuted, his instincts hampered by the stunned just-awake feeling of panic. He sucks in a breath, his heart beating wildly in his chest, and prepares to scream.

"Hey there, champ," the strange man says conversationally, pleasantly, as if it's perfectly normal and acceptable for him to be looming over a sleeping 11 year-old.

"What…" Sam gulps, his eyes darting over to the other bed, where Dean's sprawled bonelessly, sound asleep and apparently dead to the world. Which is strange, really, because Dean's an even lighter sleeper than Dad.

"Just thought I'd come by to have a little chat," the man says before taking a seat on the edge of Dean's bed.

Dean doesn't move.

"Say howdy," the man goes on with a grin that's illuminated by the streetlight beyond the window.

Sam should be screaming for help right now, or at least panicking, because there's a strange man sitting on his brother's bed, and Dad hasn't run in here to shoot him yet, and Dean isn't waking up or even _moving_. This is like some kind of… dream or something.

_Oh_.

"I'm dreaming," Sam whispers.

"Head of the class," the man winks and makes a loud check sound in his cheek. "But that doesn't mean that this isn't real, if you catch my drift."

Sam doesn't, but since it's a dream he supposes that it doesn't really matter much. Maybe the strange man won't mind explaining, though. Just in case it's important.

"Who are you?" Sam asks instead.

"I have a lot of different names," the man says with a shrug. "Of course, who I am doesn't matter so much as _why I'm here_. Right, Sammy?"

It's weird the way he says 'Right Sammy?' like he knows him, full of fondness and intimate in a way that feels familial, like how Dean or Dad would say it.

"Okay," Sam admits slowly. "Why are you here?"

The strange man grins again, and it's an open grin that feels deep enough to swallow him whole. Makes him feel like the world's opening up under his feet. Makes his stomach flutter with something like fear.

And then the room gets real warm, the air seeming to thicken and shimmer with invisible waves of heat, before the man's gleaming eyes shine bright and gold, like swirling, dancing embers of the sun. The light from the streetlamp glint's off the swirling amber like the dancing licks of a flame. It's almost kind of pretty, in a terrifying, dreamy, surreal kind of way.

"I'm here," the man with the yellow eyes says in a conspiratorial whisper, "to tell you that angels are watching over you."

That makes Sam's heart speed up a bit more, because it's very unexpected. He'd thought that his strange night visitor was some kind of monster or something, but since he's talking about angels, it must mean that he's good, too. It must mean that he's some kind of messenger or something, like Pastor Jim talked about. A messenger of God.

"Angels?" Sam whispers, completely awe-struck and sincerely hoping now that this isn't a dream. "Really?"

"You betcha!" the yellow-eyed messenger says cheerfully. "Angels. Or… angel. One. The brightest and most beautiful of them all."

Wow. There aren't words for how the little boy is feeling right now. He wants to be skeptical, but he's too filled with hope and desperation to do anything but bask in the intense feeling of relief that comes with this visit. Angels. Angels watching over him.

"Why?" Sam dares ask, still sounding star-struck. "I mean, why is this angel watching over me? Is it like my guardian angel?"

Pastor Jim had talked about those, too.

"Something like that," Yellow Eyes grins. "And lately you've been praying pretty loud, Champ. So the Morning Star sent me to let you know that everything's going to be okay."

_Everything's going to be okay_. That's what Dean's always saying. He'll lay his hand on the back of Sam's head, strong and reassuring, and talk about everything and nothing, baseball and carburetors, soothing the ache while Sam sniffles through the last of his tears after a nightmare. _Everything's going to be okay_, he says, when Dad's been gone two days too long on a hunt without checking in with the boys to let them know he's not dead. _Everything's going to be okay_ when they've run out of money and there's no food in the fridge.

Everything's going to be okay.

"He's going to take care of you," Yellow Eyes soothes. "Anything you want."

That sounds too good to be true, no matter how much Sam wants to believe it implicitly. Still, he's a Winchester, and you don't grow up with John Winchester without inheriting a hefty amount of skepticism.

"If the Morning Star is answering my prayers," Sam wonders aloud, "how come he's not here in person. How come he sent you instead?"

The messenger's smile falters fractionally, grows tight and slightly quirking at the edges.

"You're a sharp-shooter, Sammy boy," he admits proudly. "Knew I couldn't pull one over on you."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and peers intently at Sam with eyes swirling with sickly yellow.

"See, the thing they don't tell you about angels in Sunday School," he explains, "is that they're a whole lot bigger and brighter in real life than they are in the story books. So bright, in fact, that just looking at an angel would cause you to go blind. And that's the God's honest truth," he says solemnly, raising two fingers to tap his forehead. "Scout's honour."

"But because you're a messenger, you can talk to the angel?" Sam prompts.

The man looks very satisfied when he nods. "Exactly. So you tell me what you need, and I'll pass it on to your guardian angel friend. Whatever you want – you just name it, and it's yours."

Sam has to be dreaming. This can't be real. He wants it so badly to be real, but that's not the way the world works, right? At least, not if you're a Winchester. Other people get their prayers answered, but Winchesters live outside of that, on the fringes. They don't… they don't get what they want.

"I want to stay here," Sam blurts, maybe a little too quickly. "I want us to stay here together, as a family." More calmly, less desperately. "I want Dad to take care of us and not go away on hunting trips."

He thinks the man smirks at this, but the genial smile is back too quick to tell.

"Of course," he agrees. "Life on the road is no place for children."

"I don't want Dean to get killed hunting!" Sam adds emphatically. That's probably the most important one of all, really.

"I just want us to be normal."

Yellow Eyes grins, sharp and snake-like. Triumphant.

"Atta boy."

Two weeks later, Dad tells them they'll be leaving as soon as the school year's done. Sam decides then and there that the messenger in his dream was full of crap, and that, if there are angels, they're not listening to the desperate prayers and pleas of Sam Winchester. They're probably busy, off fighting world hunger or comforting starving kids in Africa or something. They're definitely not meddling in John Winchester's plans to drag his kids across the American landscape like so much luggage.

Sam doesn't think about the dream again. It was stupid anyway, and quite frankly he's embarrassed with himself for how seriously he'd taken the whole thing. He'd woken up with a smile, for goodness sake! He'd been so relieved he'd been practically walking on air, to the point that he'd even given up giving his Dad a hard time about the holes in his sneakers or the rip in his bookbag.

God, he was such a chump for believing that was real.

A month after the dream, Dean comes home from school early with a bad cough and a head cold. He goes to bed early, leaving Sam to worry about fixing his own supper for once, and doesn't come out for the next three days. By that time he's full of fever and shivering with chills, his breaths laboured and his skin so pale and waxy he looks like a ghost. Since Dad's actually around to notice, he makes Dean stay home from school and fills the medicine cabinet with cough syrup and cold pills to help with the sinus pressure in Dean's face. When Dean's breathing gets worse and the cold hasn't shaken after a week of bed rest, Dad takes Dean to the doctor (grumbling the whole way because he doesn't have insurance yet at his job 'cos he's only been there for two months, and they can't use fake insurance 'cos they've been in town too long to not get caught).

Dean comes back with a couple of different prescriptions and a crisp, white doctor's note to stay off school for the next two weeks. Acute pneumonia and a sinus infection. He takes his illness in stride, watching TV like he's on Christmas vacation or something, and cleaning the guns when he gets bored. The antibiotics do their thing: the infection and pneumonia clear up and life goes back to normal.

They've got two weeks left of school before summer starts and Sam's trying very hard not to think about the fact that they'll be leaving soon. The days are getting warmer – summer will be here soon – and the nights have lost their bitter chill. Dean's still pretty pale, and tires easily, but the weather's great and Dad's got them training with early-morning runs every day to get their strength up.

Drama rehearsals have stepped up too: every Tuesday and Thursday after school, and Saturday afternoons. Dad's taken extra shifts at the latest site so he can pick up some extra cash before they move, so it falls to Dean to get Sam to drama and soccer practices and back. In truth, Sam prefers it that way – Dean's unbridled and, albeit, embarrassing enthusiasm are infinitely preferable to Dad's grumbling and bitching. He'll take Dean's wolf-whistling and "Way to go Sammay!" shouts any day (even in the empty, enclosed space of the school theatre). Besides, it's pretty awesome that Dean actually stays to watch the practices and rehearsals, instead of just dropping Sam off like Dad does.

The night before the play opens, exactly one week before they're supposed to leave, Dean falls in the shower. It's Sunday afternoon and Sam's taking it easy in a lazy sprawl on the couch, still in his PJs even though Dad's already asked him twice to go get dressed. But it's one of those loungy days, and neither of the boys have much interest in moving about. Dean had finally gotten up, peeling his aching body up from the couch with a groan and said he was getting in the shower to try to loosen himself up a bit.

He's been stiff and sore for the past week, muttering about growth spurts and aching joints whenever Dad wasn't close enough to hear him complain. Sam figures he was still feeling off from the pneumonia, which had really knocked him on his ass.

Sam stretches on the couch, considers going to his room to curl up with _Robinson Crusoe_, and then pauses when he hears the long squeal of flesh squeaking against wet fiberglass, followed by a loud thump. He waits a beat, listening for further sounds of movement, and then turns with a snap to the right when he hears his father make a sudden lurch from his seat at the kitchen table.

"Dean?" Dad calls sharply.

The shower's still going, that much is easy to hear, but if Dean makes any kind of reply, neither his brother nor his father hears it.

"Dean?" Dad shouts again, more urgently this time as he takes long, sure strides towards the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Sam feels a sick, fluttery feeling of uneasiness dancing around in his insides, stands up and makes to join his father. He stops when the man holds out a hand in warning, ordering him to stand down, stay away.

"Dean!" Dad shouts through the door. "You okay in there?"

Through the steady sound of water beating against the shower wall, Sam thinks he hears a faint mumble that sounds like, "Dad." That's all it takes to get Dad moving. He tries the knob and swears when it won't turn.

"Sam! My lock pick – now!"

Sam doesn't think, he just moves, his body responding like a horse sprinting ahead at the start gate when the bell goes off. He flies past his father down the hall, straight into the master bedroom, and lunges for the duffel bag near the side of the bed. Trembling fingers fumble through bundles of dirty socks, a blood-stained t-shirt, jeans neatly folded, pouches of talismans, the flask of holy water, and then, there – he's got it – the well-worn leather casing of the lock-pick kit. He grasps it tightly and launches towards his father, kit extended with a shaking hand.

Dad takes it wordlessly and orders Sam to step back. The door is open within seconds and Dad surges inside like a bear into a snack-filled campsite. Sam wants to follow but doesn't, knows that Dad'll kick his ass for not doing as he's told. He hears Dad swear and then there's nothing but soft mumbling in that quiet, 'Everything's gonna be okay' voice that Dad only ever uses when things are really bad.

"Sam, go get me a blanket!" Dad yells from inside the bathroom.

Sam doesn't need telling twice. He runs back into his father's bedroom and grabs the bedspread, bundling it into his arms before dashing back to the bathroom. Dad's still using the calm, soothing voice when Sam reaches the bathroom, and when he finally crosses the threshold and steps with bare feet onto the cold, tiled floor, he finally understands why.

Dean's lying half on his side, half on his stomach, with a threadbare towel draped protectively over his hips to cover his privates. His cheek is pressed tightly against the floor, a cut on his temple bleeding sluggishly, and he's got his left arm tucked tightly against his chest, moaning in pain. Dad looks up when he hears Sam enter and reaches out with strong hands to grasp the blanket. He shakes it once before laying it out over Dean, but not before Sam catches a glimpse of the miles of white skin marred by dark, angry-looking bruises dotting the entire landscape of his body. And bone – Sam can see sharp angles poking out from spine and rib and shoulder blade, too exposed for someone with Dean's appetite and musculature.

"I gotta move you now, buddy," Dad whispers before scooping the blanket around Dean and easing him to a sitting position.

Dean groans and leans into Dad's side as if to anchor himself, digging his head into Dad's shoulder. Dad wraps his arms around him and just holds him a minute, rubbing his back and patting his hair and generally looking way more tender and touchy-feely than Sam's ever seen him. It's… it's _terrifying_.

"You with me?" Dad asks.

Dean nods weakly and peeks blearily up, trying for a grin and failing when he grimaces in pain.

"Pretty sure I broke my arm," he mumbles.

"Pretty sure you did, kiddo," Dad agrees. Then, more seriously, "There something you wanna tell me?"

Dean frowns but doesn't say anything, looking dazed and mildly confused.

"Has someone been hurting you?" Dad asks quietly as he takes Dean's face by the chin to tilt it upwards, forcing him to look him in the eyes. Dean's brow creases, his expression completely uncomprehending.

"Huh?"

Dad's expression darkens, but he keeps his temper in check, if only barely. It's actually kind of amazing to watch, Sam thinks, considering how much Dad has to be freaking out right now. Dean looks like someone locked him in a cage, starved him and beat him for about a month. And Dad's doing a really good job of reining in his temper, considering he's got to be feeling the urge to go get the thing that hurt his boy. It's his MO, after all.

"Who did this to you?" he demands, grabbing Dean's good arm and pulling it straight to show off a trio of blue-black bruises along his biceps.

"What're you…" Dean asks, then trails off when he catches a glimpse of his own bruised flesh. "Holy crap!" he exclaims. Then, noticing a faded brownish-yellow bruise on his elbow, "What the hell?"

"Sam, go to your room."

It takes a moment for the order to register, and by the time it does, Dean seems to have come back to himself enough to realize two important things: 1) that his little brother is hovering in the bathroom doorway while he and his father play Where the Hell Did That Bruise Come From?; and 2) Dean is naked underneath the blanket that's wrapped around him like a cape.

"Jesus, Sam! Get out, you freak!" Dean snaps, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

And it shouldn't hurt as much as it does, but Sam feels the sting like a slap to the face. It hurts because he's scared and he doesn't want to be shut out from what's happening. It hurts because Dean is his _brother_, and he wants to know that he's okay. It hurts because once again it's Dad and Dean, the dynamic duo, and Sam's delegated back to the kiddy table. He doesn't even bother to hide the tears as he rushes to his bedroom, slamming the door hard behind him.

He stays under the covers, buried head two toe in blankets too hot for the season like some kind of ripe mummy, and does not stir and inch when the door opens maybe ten minutes later. The footsteps shuffling through the room are heavy – not Dean's – and there's only a moment's pause before the door clicks shut. Dad busies himself with opening drawers and then sits on Dean's empty bed and just waits. Sam can hear the springs creak when he sits.

"I wanna thank you for your help earlier," Dad whispers in his deep, gravelly voice. "Might not have seemed like it at the time, but I really needed you back there."

Sam doesn't reply, though he does feel the faintest flutterings of pride swelling in his chest. He pushes them back, though, because the lump that's forming in his throat is kind of choking him.

"So it looks like your brother fell in the shower," Dad goes on conversationally. "Says he got dizzy and tripped. I'm gonna take him to the ER to see about getting his arm casted. Maybe get them to check him out. Make sure the pneumonia's fully gone."

Sam sniffles beneath the blankets.

"Will you be okay for a few hours here by yourself?"

Oh _hell_ no.

Sam throws the blankets off his head and springs into a seated pose, hair mussed in staticky chunks on his forehead.

"I wanna come with you!"

Dad actually snorts a laugh at that, and Sam can see that his deep brown eyes are warm and misty-looking. He smiles down at his youngest son in a way that looks almost like a frown, like his lip can't quite pull up into that grin the way it's supposed to. Like he might be about to _cry_ or something.

"Yeah, okay," he says before standing up to ruffle a large, calloused hand through Sam's hair. As if there were any doubt that Sam would come.

"I'm gonna take these out to your brother," he says, lifting the fresh set of clothes folded neatly in his hands. "You uh, might want to bring a book or somethin'. Likely we'll be there for a while."

A while turns out to be a big honkin' understatement. The trip to the ER takes eight hours and by the end of it everyone's so tired and cranky that no one says a word for the entire car ride home. Dean's arm is freshly casted – again – and his chest X-rays came up clear. No pneumonia. The doctors ran a bunch of blood work and then did something called a biopsy because Dean's white blood cells were too high. Whatever that means.

The results are supposed to come back in a few days, and they'll get a call if the doctors find anything. In the meantime, all three Winchesters are waspish and exhausted and starving. They stop at a diner at 6 a.m. and have the Early Bird Special, and Dad tells them both they can stay home from school if they want. It's Big Clue #1 that something is wrong, and both boys know it, too, because Dad's usual motto on days like this is "Suck it up, buttercup!" The fact that he's giving them a free pass to ditch school because of a night at the ER doesn't slip past either brother's keen sense of observation.

So they both end up going to school, if only to be contrary. Sam can't tell for sure, but he's pretty sure that Dean feels the same way about it that he does – that it's about to hit the fan and they'd better get while the getting's good. And somehow sitting around at home and waiting for bad news, waiting for the results of that biopsy, feels a lot like waiting for the other shoe to drop. At least being in class will keep them busy.

Dad drives them both to school, which is Big Clue #2 that something is seriously wrong, but neither brother comments on it. They go to the High School first and Sam watches his brother amble out of the car like an 80 year-old man, moving gingerly in the early-morning light as he maneuvers his aching hip with each pain-filled step. They'd had to draw part of his bone marrow out of his hip through a big-assed needle (which Sam can't really grasp the logistics of, but understands had to have been a pretty uncomfortable procedure, pain-killers or not), and Dean is clearly feeling the after-effects of it now. Dad tries one more time to convince him to stay home, but Dean just waves him off with a half-hearted grin.

Sam watches his brother straighten his posture, watches as he draws on reserves of strength that would make grown men twice his size envious, and struts along the cement path towards the front door of the school without faltering even once. It brings a fresh tickling of tears pricking at the back of his eyes, a lump to his throat big enough to choke him.

"He's gonna be all right, right Dad?"

Seeing Dean make his confident, casual entrance to the school, no one would ever suspect that anything was wrong with him. That means he has to be all right. The engine purrs loudly in her soothing rumble, but Dad's lack of a response makes Sam's skin shiver with cold.

"Dad?" he presses.

Dad sighs and scrubs a hand along his face before shifting the gear stick into reverse.

"Yeah, Sammy. Dean's gonna be fine."

Dad orders pizza for supper. He's quiet and broody and doesn't offer up any explanations for the odd indulgence, only stating that Dean deserves a break from cooking for one night. It would be a treat, but the tension is so thick Sam's pretty sure birds would smack dead into it. Then Dad goes ahead and asks them each in turn how their day went.

Dean goes pale and drops his half-eaten slice of pizza onto his plate with a wet plop.

"Am I dyin'?" he asks bluntly.

Sam's blood freezes, his heart hammering so hard in his chest it hurts to breathe. He turns to face his father in slow motion, peeking up from beneath his bangs as though to hide behind them.

"Don't be an ass!" Dad snarks, but doesn't quite make eye contact.

"Then what?" Dean presses. "You're bein' all… creepy with the pizza and the Ward Cleaver routine."

Dad chomps onto his slice of pizza with a determined, almost angry zeal, his nostrils flaring as he stares resolutely at the table and chews vigorously. Sam watches him, then watches Dean, sees the way Dean's eyes soften with understanding.

"Dad?" Dean tries softly, but Dad just digs in with another angry bite and continues chewing.

"Hey," Dean leans his elbows on the table. "It's okay, Dad."

"The doctor called," Dad says after a heavy swallow, nearly cutting Dean off, his voice like sandpaper. "Got your results back from the biopsy. So we gotta go in for the results, and then for more tests."

He sniffs stiffly and takes another bite, like it's no big deal. But the doctor had said that they'd call if they had news. That no news was good news. So that means that it's bad news.

_It's bad news._

Nobody will tell Sam anything. It's all hushed voices and patronizing nurses leading him away to the cafeteria for a muffin, or showing him where the vending machines are. They took Dean away hours ago to run a battery of tests, and Dad's been a frightening mix of deadly calm quiet and demanding, obnoxious asshole. _He_ knows what's wrong with Dean, but he's not saying a word to Sam about it. Protecting Sam's poor baby feelings.

They're already making appointments for Dean to see an On-Call-ogist, which Sam supposes is some kind of doctor who's at the patient's every beck and call. That has to be good, right? A doctor just for Dean? Dad doesn't seem to think so. He's looking more harried and frantic by the minute, and when a lady in teal blue scrubs shows up with a clipboard and asks Dad to finally get to filling out their insurance forms, he nearly throws a fit.

"I gotta check with my boss, I already told you," Dad grits out through clenched teeth. "I've only just qualified for coverage through the company plan, and I haven't got my plan number yet. Do you people not speak fucking English?"

It's rude, sure, but true, as far as Sam can tell. Dad had joked about it last night when they'd brought Dean in to the ER for the broken arm.

'_Good thing I made it past the three-month mark, there, Ace,'_ he'd said with a dimpled grin. _'Gonna have to give Mitchell a call on Monday to get the insurance info so you don't put us in the poor house.'_

In retrospect… Man, Dad sucks at levity.

A few hours later Sam catches sight of his brother – freaking finally – as he's wheeled through a set of double doors marked Oncology (not On-Call-ogy). The nurse leading the chair is a big, burly black guy in dark blue scrubs, and he and Dean are chatting and joking like they're old friends.

"And I swear man, they were this big," he hears his brother saying, holding his hands out palms up, fingers squeezing the air as if cupping two very large coconuts. Or, you know…

The nurse throws his head back and laughs.

"Sounds like she's got some pretty good genes," he says, and Dean nods emphatically.

"Oh hell yes," he says. "Great kisser, too."

It all looks so easy and light and normal that Sam thinks for a moment that the doctors must have gotten something wrong. Dean looks fine – albeit pale and skinny in ways he's never been before. Ever. But he's laughing and joking and being his usual self, and the nurse is joking right along with him. They don't joke like that with people who are sick or dying, right? They remain properly somber and serious.

Right?

"Hey, kiddo!" Dad exclaims with false cheer, sounding tired in spite of the dimply smile. "Got you all sorted out for now?"

"Yes, sir."

"We've scheduled him in for a spinal tap on Friday," the _Oncologist_ says, appearing out of nowhere from behind the big nurse like some kind of creepy, swoopy vampire. "Once we get the results from that, we'll be able to start the first round of chemotherapy. I'm sure we'll have your insurance information all sorted out by then."

Dad gives a brusque nod, not once taking his eyes off Dean, but Sam's eyes are glued in horror to the doctor, who's just dropped the mother of all bombshells.

Chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy means cancer.

He cries the entire way home. Loud, hiccupping, snotty sobs that leave his shoulders heaving, his face red and splotchy, his head pounding out a steady drumbeat behind his eyes. He cries shamelessly, terror-fueled sobbing wracking his entire frame as both Dad and Dean try to offer up useless words of comfort from the front seat.

"Dude, I'm gonna be fine," Dean says lightly. "It's only leukemia. That's like… a _kid's_ disease. That's nothing."

Sam catches his father's eyes through the rear-view mirror, watches the way they sharply cut to Dean before turning back to the mirror to look intently at Sam. Dad clearly doesn't agree that leukemia is nothing, but he doesn't want to contradict Dean, either. Maybe Dean doesn't realize how serious cancer is.

"Sam…" Dad says tiredly. Everything he's said in the last twenty-four hours sounds like it was dragged from the lungs of a man that hasn't slept in eighty years.

"You need to buckle down, son. Rein it in. You're only gonna make yourself sick by freaking out like that, and right now we need to focus on Dean. Need to be strong for him."

"Dad…" Dean warns.

"Being hysterical isn't going to help your brother," Dad goes on. Which makes Sam feel even worse.

"Dad!" Dean says, more sharply this time.

But Dad's shaking his head no, his bottom lip jutting out stubbornly as he grips the steering wheel so tight it looks like he's choking it.

"No, Dean," Dad orders. "You don't get to play this one down like you do everything else. You don't get to protect Sam from this."

Dean casts a quick, guilty look back at Sam before facing their father.

"Sure I do," he shrugs. "My disease – my choice how we play this thing. And anyway, there's no sense worrying Sam about it. I'm gonna be _fine_."

"Goddamnit!" Dad growls and jerks the steering wheel hard to the right, tires squealing as he slams the breaks and sends the Impala into a terrifying fishtail before righting it onto the shoulder of the road where it slows and inevitably stops to the crunch of tires on gravel.

He's breathing hard, like he just ran a marathon, his eyes fixed firmly ahead, his shoulders rising and falling in panted breaths as he resumes strangling the steering wheel. Then he turns to Dean and his eyes are angry and wet.

"Sam," he says, eyes still trained on Dean. His lip jiggles but he doesn't cry. Not quite. "Your brother's got leukemia. Acute lymphocytic leukemia. It's a type of cancer that spreads fast."

"Dad don't—" Dean whispers, voice thin like paper.

"They're gonna start him on chemotherapy this Friday so we can try and kill off the cancer cells. The faster they start, the faster we can beat this thing."

Sam's always heard people say that knowledge is power, but this – this knowing – doesn't make him feel powerful at all. He feels about two feet tall, and about as powerful as an ant under a magnifying glass. He feels _helpless_.

"It's gonna get a lot worse before it gets better," Dad says, still looking at Dean.

He's lost the fight with his tears, a few of them dribbling down his chin and catching on his whiskers. But Dean's right there with him, shiny tracks trailing down his pale, freckled cheeks as he looks up at their Dad with real, child-like fear in his eyes. Sam's never seen his brother look so scared.

Then Dad does something really unexpected (even more shocking than the crying). He grabs Dean by the shoulders and yanks him in close for a crushing hug. Dean resists for only a moment before melting into it, skinny, bruised arms (one in a shiny white new cast) gripping at the worn leather of Dad's old leather jacket. Dad tips his head in Sam's direction and gives a fast, jerky nod, a silent command to get on up to the front seat.

Sam scrambles over the large bench seat and Dad shimmies aside to make room for him, opening his embrace to include his youngest child as all three Winchesters cling to each other for a rare moment of desperate, vulnerable affection. Which, of course, is Dean's cue to crack a joke.

"Wow," he says through the fabric of Dad's shirt, his face mashed into Dad's collarbone. "You'd think I had testicular cancer with this lovely chick flick moment we're having here."

Dad stiffens for a moment, then throws his head back and laughs, deep from his belly. It's so open and honest and filled with relief and grief that Sam finds himself laughing along with him (even if he doesn't quite get the joke). Then Dad sniffs and lets his arms drop so that he's not quite holding his sons, so much as he's petting them awkwardly, one hand on each boy's shoulder.

"All right," he says at length, nodding to each son in solidarity. "We done with the slumber party confessional moment here?"

Sam and Dean both nod solemnly.

"Good. Now, here's how it's gonna be," Dad says. "Dean – your focus – your _entire_ focus – is on getting better. You don't worry about taking care of me and Sammy—"

And here Dean tries to protest, but Dad just barrels on ahead.

"—we're taking care of you for a change. That's an order. _You_ are going to kick this thing's ass. And son, believe you me, this might just be the toughest sonofabitch you will ever face. Got me?"

Dean nods, his green eyes wide but determined.

"Yes sir."

"And Sammy," Dad says, turning those dark eyes on him with a warm but serious expression, squeezing his shoulder tightly in a one-handed grip. "You're gonna cut me some slack, okay? No more bitching about practices and rehearsals. We're gonna be back and forth for doctors visits and tests and treatments, and Dean's schedule trumps yours. Period."

Sam gulps and nods, trying his hardest not to start crying again.

"We're gonna be sticking around here for a while," Dad explains. "That means I'll be working full-time and possibly overtime so I can bring in extra cash flow to help cover medical expenses. That means I don't got time for all the things you'd like to do. It sucks, but sometimes you gotta make sacrifices.

"But," he goes on, "that doesn't mean I want you to give up everything. Okay? It just means that… Well, we'll try, okay? We'll get you to your practices when we can, and we'll get you to the birthday parties when we can. But when we can't – and there'll be times when we can't – no lip about it. You don't give me or your brother grief about it. Are we clear?"

Sam doesn't know how he finds his voice through the constriction in his throat, but he manages a solemn "Yes sir" that seems to be enough to satisfy the old drill sergeant.

"There," Dad says. "Now get your scrawny asses off my lap so we can get home. My legs are going numb."

It's as good of a pep talk as either boy is ever likely to receive from their father, so they take it like the brave soldiers that they are. As they're pulling back onto the highway, Dean turns in his seat and grins at his baby brother.

"See, it's not so bad," he says lightheartedly. "And hey, looks like you got your wish. We're gonna be sticking around here after all."

It's with a sense of gut-wrenching, paralyzing fear that Sam realizes that he'd gotten what he wanted, after all.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

Bless me father for I have sinned.

_When was the last time you were at confession, my child?_

Um… well… I'm not really Catholic, so I've never really been to confession. But I did something really terrible and I… I needed somebody to talk to. Need to confess, I guess. Pastor Jim says that God forgives everything, if we ask for it. So… that's why I'm here.

_Of course. Through confession we can be forgiven, in Christ our Father. What do you have to confess?_

Um… I've lied. To my dad. I told him I was running laps two weeks ago when really I went to the library. I shouldn't have to lie, but Dad's such a hardass about training, and I had a book report due, so… I also just said hardass, which I guess is a sin too.

_What else, my child?_

I don't always honour my father like the Bible says I should. My Dad and I – we don't really get along. I'm not like him. I don't… I can't _be_ like him. He says I talk back all the time, and that I should just tow the line and follow orders like a good son. But Father, his orders are _crazy_. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only sane person in my whole family.

_It can be difficult to submit and obey, especially when we don't see eye to eye. A father's job is never an easy one. But sometimes, neither is a son's._

I've been mean to my brother. Not to his face – he'd kick my a-…my butt. But in my heart sometimes I look at him and think, 'He's so stupid. How can I even be related to him?' And I know it's not nice to think those things, but sometimes I do.

_Do you love your brother?_

Yes. God y-I mean… **Yes**. More than anyone. More than Dad even. Dean's… He can be a bit of a jerk sometimes, but he's an awesome brother. And a good person, too. Real good. Not good like following the rules – he's practically a juvenile delinquent. But good like… in his soul? He's good in his soul. Always putting everyone else first. Selfless.

_And what about you, my child? Are you not good in your soul, too?_

…

…

I don't think so. I don't think I can be…

…

I think I gave my brother cancer.

888

Sam prays. Every night. He shuts himself in the bathroom and kneels on the floor and prays so fervently he gets lightheaded. He prays with his hands clasped tightly together, pressed to his forehead, lips mumbling a silent litany of apology.

_Please, my guardian angel – please, please, please, don't let Dean be sick. I didn't want this. I would never want __**this**__._

His little body trembles with the weight of guilt and shame piled high on his shoulders, praying to undo it, to unsay the words, to take back the dream-plea for normal.

_Morning Star – or messenger… if you're listening. Please! I just wanted normal – I didn't want Dean to get sick. Please don't make him sick 'cos of me. Please, please! I'll never ask for anything again! I just… I didn't… I didn't mean __**that**__. Please!_

Then Dean will knock on the door and tell him to finish jerking off already, and the desperate moment of religious fervor is abruptly ended, the solemn and pious mood sufficiently killed. Then Sam drags himself shakily to his feet, washes his face to hide the evidence of his tears, and emerges from the bathroom only long enough to make a beeline for his bedroom, where he promptly buries himself under the covers in his bed and avoids making any contact with his father and brother.

It's a nightly ritual that he has kept up daily since they got the news that Dean has leukemia. And the Yellow Eyed messenger hasn't shown up. Sam's dreams have been blank and meaningless. So he doesn't know if they heard his prayers or not, doesn't know if they got the message. Doesn't know if they're going to undo it (or if they even did it in the first place).

Life goes back to normal for the most part. Dad goes to work every day, and the boys go to school because Dean doesn't have any more treatments or tests until Friday. They don't talk about the Big C unless they absolutely have to, mostly because nobody really wants to think about it. They do their homework after school, and Dean makes supper like always, and then the boys watch some TV before going to bed. The only difference is that, in the evenings, instead of poring over newspaper obituaries and reading up on mythology and local legends, Dad spends just about every waking hour filling out forms.

The hospital assigned a social worker to Dean's case the moment they got the diagnosis of leukemia, which, in spite of Dad's possessively private streak when it came to his kids, turned out to be a really good thing. It was touch and go for a moment there when the slender young woman in the pant-suit (sexy librarian, Dean had said) approached them to talk about Dean's treatment options. Dad's always a grumpy bear when people try to butt their noses into Winchester family business. But this lady, Ms. Grace, gets down to the practicalities of insurance, handing over a whole host of forms for Dad to fill out so that they can qualify for all sorts of state-funded treatment programs.

"And as a single father with two dependents, you're sure to qualify for this one," she'd said assuredly, indicating one of the forms in her hand.

Because apparently, when your kid gets sick with a disease that could kill him, worrying about how you're going to pay for it (or how you're going to get someone _else_ to pay for it) takes up a lot of your time. So Dad busies himself with forms, calling various agencies and sweet-talking them for information on how best to work the system. He approaches it with the same kind of single-minded, direct focus that he uses to approach hunting. And he's just as scary and cranky with the pen in his hand as he ever was with a gun. Dean jokes that he looks like he's campaigning for the local Democratic branch, with how much time he spends on the phone politicking.

When Friday finally arrives, Dad makes Sam go to school. Sam really doesn't want to go, for once, because Dean has his spinal tap today and he really wants to go with him. But Dad says no – Sam's got school and he's got to finish up. He drives Sam to school that morning looking all dark-eyed and solemn, distracted, and doesn't bother making conversation.

There are so many questions Sam wants to ask. What's going to happen now? What's the spinal tap for? Will Dean feel better after it's done? Are they going to operate to remove the cancer? What's chemotherapy actually do? How long 'til the cancer goes away?

But he doesn't ask, because he's afraid of the answers. And also, he's hoping that the doctors will find out that Dean's cancer went away since their last visit (he has been praying _really hard_). So he sits in silence, big, cat-slanted eyes staring unseeingly out the window as the world flies past in a bright summer blur in the early morning light. The Impala rumbles like an angry, black beast through the suburban landscape, and Sam feels a bit like a passenger in a really loud ghost ship, floating outside of the reality of school and homework. Like the real world doesn't exist anymore because Dean has cancer and _that's their life now_.

Then the blurring clears as the car slows, and Sam can see the elementary school looming ahead as they approach at school-zone appropriate speed. Dad clears his throat and wrings his hands around the worn leather of the steering wheel. Not taking his eyes off the road, he speaks in a voice as rough as gravel under their tires.

"Dean's not gonna be up for much this weekend." He pauses, eyes darting in Sam's direction, lightning fast, before they're back on the road again.

"I know your play starts on Monday," clearing his throat again. "Your brother really wants to be there." He's so agitated his skin's fairly twitching with restless energy.

"I don't think… I don't think he'll be able to make it, Sam."

And there's so much his father's not saying that it makes Sam feel like bawling again. It would be better if Dad just told him that he has to quit the play, that the Winchesters have more important things to focus their attention on. But he's not saying that. He's being all apologetic and regretful and making Sam feel like the worst kind of pond scum.

"He really wants to be there," Dad repeats, as if Sam hadn't heard, or didn't believe it. As if Dean's just going to skip out on Sam's play just to be an asshole.

"And _I_ really want to be there," Dad says thickly, sounding like he's about to start bawling too. "But they might be startin' Dean's chemotherapy as early as today, and I don't wanna leave your brother alone if the effects are as bad as they say they are… I just. Don't want you thinkin' I'm choosin' your brother over you."

Sam's so shocked by this display of emotion and sudden interest that he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. First: Dad wants to see his play all of a sudden? That sounds like horseshit (Dean would say). Dad's never wanted to see Sam's play – has shown nothing but disdain for it since the very first rehearsal. It's like some kind of weeping Pod Person took over his father's body.

And second: Sam doesn't want to be in the stupid play anymore. Not if Dean's going to be miserable at home, sick with cancer, while Sam gets up on a stage in front of hundreds of people and pretends like he's just a regular kid whose brother _isn't_ dying. He doesn't feel like he _deserves_ to be in the play anymore.

He doesn't voice any of that, though. Instead he nods, eyes watching his feet as his head bobs, and takes a deep breath before opening the door with a creak that he feels down to his young, cancer-free bones. He tries for a smile when he gets out of the car, looks into his Dad's eyes and sees an unfathomable, deep look staring back at him, and finds that all he can do is stare back with an indescribable look of his own. Dad nods, just once, and Sam pushes the door shut and watches him drive away. He shuffles off towards the school doors with a heart so heavy it makes his shoulders sag under the weight of it.

The whole day passes in a fog of restless energy and distraction. Sam barely hears his teachers as they go through the day's lessons, barely registers the other kids talking to him now and again. His mind is notably elsewhere, his eyes constantly peeking up at the clock to gauge the time, wondering how Dean's doing, how the procedure's going. Wondering if it's his fault and wondering if Dean's going to die.

And it's strange, because during the week, while Dean had been back at school, things had almost been normal. Sam had almost let himself forget that his big brother was even sick. School was a distraction from the ever-present gloom of this new disease hanging over all their heads, and Sam, maybe selfishly, had eased into that distraction like soaking into the soothing bubbles of a hot tub, if only for the few short hours that he was there.

Not now, though. Not today. Today there's no distracting Sam from what's happening. Today he is a bundle of raw nerves, his imagination running overtime. He pictures Dean being wheeled in a wheelchair down an endless corridor, flanked by doctors and nurses and Dad, while tubes trail out of his arms and machines beep around him. He sees Dean lying in a hospital bed, white as death, pulling out tufts of his own hair (because Dad said chemotherapy makes you go bald) and asking Sam, 'Are you happy now? This what you wanted?' He sees himself standing on a grassy mound, standing before a grave marked with a single, lonely cross and hears his father's anguished voice demanding, 'Why did it have to be Dean? He's such a good son!'

It isn't until Mrs. Oakley interrupts the class to pull him into the hallway that he realizes he's crying. In the middle of a riveting lesson about the solar system. She kneels down so she's closer to his level and pulls him into a hug, patting his hair comfortingly and asks, "How's your brother doing?"

Dad told both Dean and Sam's teachers about Dean's leukemia. It's easier on everyone if the schools know what's going on in case they have to leave suddenly for an emergency. Or in case something happens while they're in school, even if there's only a few days left. You never know, right?

Right now Sam can't answer her, so he fists his hands in the back of her blouse and just holds on tight until the feeling passes, until his eyes dry up and he gets control of himself enough to pull away without looking like a total girl. Then he takes a few steadying breaths and shakes his head no when Mrs. Oakley asks if he wants to have a lie-down in the sick room.

"I'm okay," he reassures her, even though he isn't. He thinks he may never be okay again.

888

'_It's a good thing Mary isn't here to see this,'_ John thinks, then immediately wants to retract it, yank the thought back from the atmosphere and swallow it.

It would be better if Mary were here. Aside from the obvious reason, being that her absence in their lives is like a gaping, black hole of pain and emptiness, it would be such a comfort to have her by his side right now. John feels her absence like the loss of a limb, more so now than he has in years. And much as it would kill her, as it's killing him, to see her baby sick and hurting like this, it would be better for Dean if she were here right now. God, Dean needs his mother right now. More than John needs his wife.

They've got Dean in a Johnny shirt, lying on his side on a hospital bed, his legs tucked up towards his chest, like he's sitting in a chair lying down, curled into a fetal position, with his chin tilted down. There's a nurse at his bedside, holding his hand, while a doctor stands behind him with a terrifying-looking syringe that makes John feel nauseous just to look at. They're just about to start the procedure, and God help him but John wants to tell them to forget about it and just take his boy home before they put that damned syringe to use. It doesn't matter that they've already injected him with shit to freeze the area – that giant needle is about to be inserted into his kid's _spine_.

"Now we've numbed the area," the doctor says slowly, carefully, as he positions himself behind Dean, his hands now moved where John can't see them. "But you might… feel a bit of a—"

Dean gasps and scrunches his eyes shut tight, his bottom lip gnashed violently between his teeth as he bites down hard. John tenses and resists the urge to fly out of his seat. _They're hurting my boy_.

"You're doing great, Dean," the nurse says in a whisper-soft voice.

"Are you feeling any pain?" the doctor asks sharply, and Dean mutters a muffled "no" from his tucked position.

"Then you need to relax," the doctor says. "This'll be over in just a few minutes. I promise."

Dean keeps his eyes squeezed shut but releases his lip, which is pink and swollen from being bitten.

"Just… felt it…" he pants. "Felt _wrong_."

"It's okay," the nurse soothes. "It might hurt for a second, but the anesthetic is working, yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean admits, squeezing her hand a bit.

God, John wishes Mary was here.

When the doctor finally withdraws the needle, the nurse offers up a few proud platitudes about how great Dean's been through the whole thing, wiping a stray lock of blonde from his forehead before instructing Dean to hold his position. Then they're left alone, father and son, while the doctor and nurse leave with their precious spinal fluid.

"So…" John drawls. "Six hours, huh?"

"Six hours," Dean replies. "You might wanna run to the cafeteria or go run some errands or somethin'. I'm cool here."

And it's tempting. It's a sign of what a terrible father he is, because it's tempting to take the out his son's just given him and just get the heck out of dodge. Part of John wants to just run – run and never look back. Run away from this big fucking mess of hospitals and doctors and prescriptions and insurance forms. He could go find the nearest bar and drink himself stupid, drown his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle like he did right after Mary died.

But he's got a fifteen year-old kid in front of him who's curled up on his side like a baby, looking too pale under the bright fluorescent hospital lights, and that kid's got a six-hour wait of just lyin' here like this because he just had a fuckin' lumbar puncture, and there's risk of 'neurological disruption,' post-spinal headache and nausea if he doesn't remain in a supine position. So much as John might want to bury his head in the sand and pretend that this isn't happening, that's never been John Winchester's way of handling things.

Still… Six fucking hours with the kid who can't sit still for ten minutes, let alone lie still for s_ix hours_, with nothing to do but _talk_ to pass the time…? It's like every Winchester's worst nightmare. And in a place like this, with the smells and sounds of hospital permeating every bit of space, every thought, that talking's bound to lead in a very morose and fatalistic direction. John really, really doesn't want to have that kind of conversation with his son. Not ever.

But the alternative is leaving Dean alone to face the morose and fatalistic thoughts, alone with the sounds and smells, alone with his fear. Six hours of lying on his side alone in an empty exam room, waiting for the time to pass and filling it with worrying about the cancer poisoning his body.

That's really not an option.

So John takes up the chair that's only recently been vacated by the nurse and plunks himself down into it with a heavy sigh. If there was something he could shoot, or stab, or torture into making his son well and healthy again, John would shoot, and stab, and torture it. He'd find the evil thing and he'd make it pay before he killed it. But since this evil thing is just some freak act of biology, there's nothing to shoot or stab or torture. There's just Dean, with his wide green eyes looking up at him like he has all the answers. There's just Dean, who needs him now more than ever.

_God, I wish Mary was here!_

But Dean's a brave kid, probably a better soldier than his old man ever was, and he's playing it cool like he always does when he's scared shitless. Sparks up a conversation about some heavy-chested girl at school named Rachel and waggles his eyebrows at the appropriate moments as he jokes about which school rumours about her are true and which aren't. It figures that the boy would distract himself from his own distress by thinking about sex. He's pretty much always thinking about sex. And hunting.

"Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I took out the golem?" John asks.

Dean's eyes light up eagerly, his smile bright in spite of everything, and John thinks, not for the first time, how fucking lucky he is to have someone as special as Dean for a son. If there is a God up there, He really is a sonovabitch.

888

John takes the boys to the beach on Saturday. It's probably a case of too-little too-late, but at this point he really doesn't care. He's not making up for anything: he knows that. It's more that he's trying to jam as much time in with his boys as he can while they still can, before chemo starts and things get really shitty for everyone.

It's a beautiful day, even though the water's still a bit chilly, and the sand is hot under their feet. There's not a cloud in the sky, and the beach has managed to attract a small crowd of families intent on soaking up as much sun and sand as the day will allow. John thinks it's a solid plan.

He watches his boys chasing each other along the shore, neither daring to brave the still chilled ocean waves. They don't have swim trunks – Dean doesn't even have shorts, instead wearing a cut-off pair of jeans that are just slightly too small for him – but they're barefoot and bare-chested (or Sam is at least; Dean's covering up his pale, bruise-spotted skin with an old t-shirt) and are enjoying the early-summer heat the way kids are supposed to. It's not like Dean can go swimming anyway, what with the cast and all, but he did manage to procure a bucket (from where, John can't even guess), which he promptly filled with water and is now chasing his kid brother with while shouting, "Come on, maggot! Take it like a man!" The high-pitched squeal Sam emits when he's doused with the bucket's icy contents makes John laugh so hard his cheeks hurt.

'_They're good kids,'_ he thinks as he watches Sam sputter in shock before rounding on his brother to exact terrible revenge. _'They're good kids.'_

They alter course, pivoting on their heels as Dean turns when the hunter becomes the hunted. Sam hasn't really got anything to threaten Dean with: no bucket, no water, and certainly no advantage of size, speed, or agility; but Dean's playing along and running away like the Devil's chasing him, which John supposes is fair enough. Sam may come across as all soft-hearted and sweet, but the kid's a scrapper and he knows how to make his hits count. He gives as good as he gets.

And true to form, Sam lunges and lands on his brother's back like a scrabbly howler monkey. It's as hilarious as it is absurd, this perverse piggy-back thing they've got going, with Sam clinging to his big brother's back in a strangle-hold while Dean zigs and zags in the sand in an attempt to throw him off. It's play – very obviously play – in a way John hasn't seen in such a long time that it makes his heart ache as if phantom hands are squeezing it. Because if this were a drill, Dean would have flipped his brother and planted him hard on his back in about a nanosecond, and Sam would be blinking up in surprise (and pain) from his prone position on the sand.

But they're not training, or running any kind of drills. They're just two kids today, horsin' around in the sun. They're just two kids enjoying each others' company while their Dad watches proudly from the sidelines. They're brothers and _friends_, and if that doesn't make the old hunter feel like bawling helplessly, he doesn't know what would.

John wipes a rogue tear off his cheek and passes the time in silent contemplation. The boys tire themselves out with the rough-housing and settle into a prime spot of smooth, toasty sand to start building a sand castle. It's lazy and peaceful and so damned picture perfect. So damned fucking perfect.

Until it's not.

They've managed to erect a pretty sizeable-looking fortress of bucket-shaped mounds when it happens. John watches as his eldest wipes the back of his right hand absently under his nose, and just like that the game's over.

"Dad?" Sam calls, voice pitched both deeper and higher in fear and warning.

John's moving before his brain has a chance to catch up. The sand is scorchingly hot under his bare feet but he barely registers it, too intent on the wide-eyed look Sam's casting his way in between staring nervously at Dean. Then he gets closer and sees the line of red smeared across the back of Dean's hand.

"Dean!" John barks sharply before reaching out to snatch his son's chin, tilting the boy's face up to see a dark stream of blood dribbling down his lips and chin. It's one gusher of a nosebleed, fat, red drops already dotting the sand between Dean's knees.

"I don't know what happened…" Dean's eyes are wide, his face suddenly ghostly pale, and his voice sounds almost dreamily surprised. "We were just…"

"You're not in trouble, dude," John assures him. And when did it happen that his kids became so afraid of him that they apologize for getting a nosebleed? Is he that much of a dictatorial asshole?

"I don't know what happened," Dean repeats.

Blood's pooling in John's palm, dripping from his fingers and forming a deep, dark ring in the sand. Christ, there's a lot of it. It's coming fast and hot and thick and so fucking red against the white of Dean's freckled face.

"Shit! We gotta go, buddy." John tilts Dean's head back and Dean obediently pinches the bridge of his nose to try to stem the blood flow. Then, carefully as he can, John hoists his kid up under the armpits until he's standing.

"Sammy, go get our gear and pack it up. I'm gonna get your brother to the c—"

"Dad!" Sam's scream is a frantic warning, and that's all the warning he gets before Dean sags against him, completely dead weight. Passed out cold.

"Shit!" John swears, adjusting his hold on Dean as his son's dead weight leans against his chest.

It's all unraveling too fast.

"Pack up our gear and get in the car, Sam. _Move!_"

John doesn't wait for confirmation from his youngest – trusts that it'll get done because it needs to get done – and instead focuses all his attention on the boneless form slumped against him. Blood's still flowing steadily from the kid's nose, spattering in warm droplets against John's hands where they're clutching Dean under the armpits. It's a long walk to the car and, though Dean's lost a fair bit of weight in the last couple months, he isn't exactly light. It'll take some maneuvering to get a good enough hold on him to make the trek back to the Impala.

Then Dean stirs – _thank Christ_ – and John feels his heart rate slow to something approaching normal in relief. Dean hangs there like a stringless marionette for almost a full sixty-second count before shuffling his feet in the sand in an attempt to get upright. John can tell from the way he moves that he's disoriented, confused.

"Dad?" Dean murmurs thickly, voice somewhat garbled by the blood that's dripped into his mouth.

"I gotcha, Dean," John soothes. "Take it easy, kiddo. I gotcha."

Dean's arms flail weakly, his feet scrambling for purchase as his father continues to hold him up.

"'m'okay," he says. Then one foot plants into the shifting sand and finds solid ground there. The other follows suit and soon Dean's levering himself upright as John eases his hold.

It lasts for about three seconds before the boy lists forward, the inevitable face-plant prevented only by John's strong hands gripping him around the shoulders.

"Okay," John intones. "Up you go – come on."

He tucks one arm under Dean's armpit and bends just enough to get a grip under his son's knees to lift him up bridal style, but Dean jerks stubbornly away.

"I c'n walk," Dean mumbles, but it's an out-and-out lie and they both know it. John ignores him in favour of making a second attempt at lifting him up into his arms.

"Dad don't!" Dean begs, and John allows himself to look down to see the pleading look in those wide green eyes. "Please… Don' carry me. I c'n walk. _Please_."

The face is so pale, so fucking pale it's practically see-through, and the kid looks about a breath away from passing out again; but God help him, John can't listen to that kind of pleading without wanting to comply. _'Don't let me be weak,'_ the look says. _'Don't let Sammy see me like this.'_ _'Don't let this be real.'_

"Fine," John huffs.

Readjusting his grip so that he's taking most of Dean's weight on one shoulder, he gently nudges forward as they make awkward shuffle-steps along the sand. Dean's trembling, shaking like a leaf, and John's pretty sure that sheer force of will alone, and too much pride, are keeping him from passing out again. The t-shirt Dean's wearing is a gory mess of blood in a V-shaped spatter down the front, and both their hands are slick with it. People stop and stare as they pass, offering to call 911 for them and generally making a nuisance of themselves in ways that make John want to scream.

But it's the look on Sam's face as he rushes to meet them, towel in hand to stem the flow of blood from Dean's nose, that feels most like a sucker-punch to the gut. His eyes are big and wet, and his lip jiggles in a perfect imitation of his dad's when the old man's about to get weepy. Sam looks fucking _terrified_.

"Thank you," John says with forced calm as he takes the proffered towel and presses it under Dean's nose. "Wouldn't want to ruin the upholstery."

"Damn straight!" Dean's muffled voice agrees through the towel.

They head back to the car in silence, and neither of the boys objects when John informs them that they're heading straight for the hospital. It's an ominous sign of how shitty Dean must be feeling, but no one comments on that, either.

888

Leukemia sucks hairy balls. If it wasn't bad enough that these hyperactive cancer cells are shooting Dean's immune system all to shit, leaving him prone to infection, they're also fucking with his blood-clotting abilities. Now the kid's got fucking _anemia_, which, while being 'perfectly treatable and nothing to worry about,' is yet another thing to add to a steadily growing list of ailments. Dean doesn't need this shit.

The bleeding goes on for hours. Dr. Lange, the ER doc, decides to admit Dean so that they can monitor the situation, administer transfusions if it calls for it, and keep an eye on the low-grade fever that seems to have sprung up from nowhere. For his part, Dean's looking a little worn around the edges – always wearing a brave face for his little brother, cracking jokes and acting utterly invincible, but tired in ways he can't hide, even from Sam.

John wishes he could protect them both from this, but the fact is this cancer is a sneaky sonovabitch, upsetting and unsettling them at every turn.

They keep Dean overnight in the Peds ward. John makes light of it, downplaying the sudden urge to hyperventilate in absolute terror, for the sake of his boys. But it's a bitter pill to swallow, and a horribly quiet and subdued drive back to their shabby apartment without Dean. John won't allow himself to see this as foreshadowing, as a sign of things to come, a taste of what it will feel like when Dean's gone. Because that's just not going to fucking happen. Ever.

When Sam asks, voice quivering with unshed tears, if his big brother is going to die, John grits his teeth and seethes. He can't form a reply, just seethes with rage so hot and pure it could melt through iron, could burn out his eyeballs. He wants to tell his fearful kid that everything's going to be okay. He wants to tell Sam that Dean's stronger than leukemia, and that once they're done with the chemo he'll be healthy again and back to normal. He wants to answer no, irrefutably, unequivocally, irrevocably, no. Dean is not going to die.

But that ugly, black little nugget of truth hiding away in the deepest recesses of his soul tells him that it's bad when your kid's being kept overnight at the ER because the cancer cells spreading through his body are knocking him on his ass this quickly. They haven't even started chemo yet and already it feels like too much. And now there's the added set-back of anemia and fever (sure sign of infection somewhere) holding up treatment: now they've got to treat the anemia and fever first, before they can get started on the chemo. And with the delay, the cancer is only going to spread further and kill off more healthy blood cells…

Already it feels like the leukemia is winning.

Of course, John can't say any of that. He's got to keep his goddamned game face on or his kids will fall apart. And besides that, this is one of those times where (cheesy as it sounds) mind really needs to win out over matter. If they allow themselves to believe that Dean could die, they're pretty much laying out the welcome mat for the grim reaper to come a'knocking. They've got to be strong – Dean's got to be strong – if they're going to beat this thing. And that means they've got to _believe_ that Dean will beat this thing. Because if Dean actually believes that he could die, if he gives up…?

"For Christ's sake, Sammy!" John barks out in his gruffest, most exasperated and condescending voice. "Pull yourself the fuck together."

It has the desired effect. Sam's tears stop, his eyes widening in shock, his breath catching in his throat, and then that look settles in, his brows draw close, all Clint Eastwood-like, and the kid pulls up his ugliest scowl.

"Your brother's not gonna die," John says, _instructs_. "ALL's serious, I grant, and it sucks balls, but we caught it early and we're all set to start treatment. Few months time your brother'll be in remission and this whole damned cancer mess will be one bad fucking memory.

"Now in the meantime, I need you to stop with the weeping willow routine and man up. Dean's not gonna get better if you're sittin' around crying all the time. You want him thinking he doesn't stand a chance against this leukemia? You want him thinking he can't beat it?"

He knows it's a low blow, but he learned a long time ago that using the boys against each other with this bullshit emotional blackmail was one of the easiest and quickest ways to get them to tow the line. Dean, especially, would fold completely if he thought there was a chance his actions would bring his brother down in some way. And Sam could be manipulated like a marionette, provided he didn't realize he was being manipulated, if he thought his actions would come down on Dean.

Won't win John any Father of the Year awards, that's for damned sure, but if it keeps his boys alive he figures it's a fair trade. So it's with grim satisfaction that he hears his youngest's weak "no sir."

They don't talk about Dean dying again after that.

TBC...

A/N: Chemo in the next chapter! I didn't want to be too long in getting this chapter up, so I figured this was a good place to stop for now (at just over 6000 words). Thanks for reading - and if you have a spare moment, do please drop me a line to let me know what you think of it!


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hello darlings! Sorry for the wait! This chapter was really hard to write. I also did more than half of it in one sitting, so there are probably gross errors. I'll correct them as I find them, but if y'all notice another debacle like the "bucket seat" incident, do please let me know! I never mean to be disrespectin' Dean's baby like that! lol.

Anyway, without further ado...

* * *

Chapter 3

They have a brief reprieve from the worries of cancer and treatment while Dean does a round of antibiotics and takes a whole host of supplements to get his iron levels and immune system up. They have five days. It's kind of nice, actually, getting to do things that normal families do, including going to Sammy's play and watching him act the bumbling hero in some ridiculous piece called "The Fall of Solomon Slime." Dean laughs himself to tears, and John finds himself laughing right along with him, as Sammy goes through his paces on the stage, his floppy hair slicked back to make him look older, his pudgy little frame decked out in a shabby-looking suit from the elementary school's meager costume selection. It's pretty adorable, truth be told, and John allows himself the moment of relaxation as he watches his youngest proudly.

It'd be nice, he thinks, if they were doing this in another life. If Mary hadn't died and monsters didn't exist, they could all be here together. Mary with her hand in his, or maybe with her arm slung around Dean's shoulder. They'd go out for pizza afterwards, and Mary would tell Sam how proud she was of her little man, how good an actor he was (and really, the kid _is_ a natural).

But that life can never be, John knows. It was destroyed in flame and ash and blood and screaming.

He imagines yet another life, far less appealing than the first fantasy but still better than the nightmare they're living in, where the evil bastard that killed Mary wasn't some elusive shadow, where John had found the damned thing and killed it within the first few years of hunting. It'd be dead and the boys'd be safe, and they'd have settled down as a family in a town just like this and started their lives over. It'd be hard, sure – Mary's loss is something John'll never really get over – but knowing that the threat to his boys had been eliminated would give John enough peace of mind to just stop fucking _running_. He'd be able to be the kind of father he always wanted to be. And the boys'd grow up settled somewhere permanent, somewhere they belonged.

And if wishes were quarters the Winchesters would be millionaires by now.

It is what it is. That's the reality of the situation as John knows it. And he's seriously deluding himself with these fantasies – something he rarely ever indulges in, given the things he's done and seen since his hunting career began – by allowing himself to play the 'what if' game. He's got too fucking much to do, in the here and now, to bother daydreaming about what might have been. Dean's pale face and darkly shadowed eyes are proof enough of that.

When the curtain closes and a dozen or so kids shuffle back onto the stage to take a bow, Dean stands and claps and shouts, "Yeah, Sammay!" so loudly that people in nearby seats turn and stare. John's about to admonish him, but then catches Sam's beaming, dimpled grin from the stage and holds back the surly retort, bites it back just in time, and instead adds a few sharp whistles of approval of his own. For now his kids are happy, aren't thinking about cancer, and he'll let them have it. Christ knows they need it.

They wait around in the theatre with a bunch of other parents after everyone else has shuffled out to go home. Sam does his thing backstage, no doubt chatting it up with the other kids in the play while they get out of their costumes and wash off their stage make-up, while John and Dean wait patiently for his return. Then a ruckus of childish laughter just sort of erupts from the wings of the stage as a small swarm of elementary-aged kids comes barreling down the stairs at stage right, young faces lit up with excitement and pride. John spots Sam in the centre of the group, talking animatedly with his fellow thespians as they make their way together as one amorphous blob towards their waiting parents.

Another piece of normal that makes John's whole body tense up with regret so badly it _stings_ along the surface of his skin like a bad sunburn.

"Dean!" Sam exclaims through the crowd, and John bites back the momentary pang of jealousy that it's not his name his son calls for in his moment of glory. You don't get to begrudge things like that when you've been as absent in your kids' lives as John has. Rationally he knows that, but it doesn't mean it hurts any less to see it played out like this, how much his kids have had to get on without him.

Then Sam is running, breaking free of his peers to lunge at his brother in a fierce hug that almost knocks them both over. Arms still dimpled at the elbows with the last vestiges of baby fat wrap around Dean's slim waist and squeeze tightly. Dean chuckles, keeping it light as always, and ruffles a broad palm through Sam's shaggy mop of hair before hugging back, long and coltish after a recent growth spurt, his casted arm held loose in the embrace.

"You were pretty good up there, shrimp," Dean admits proudly. "And hey, I could actually see your eyes without all that girly hair hangin' in the way."

They both expect Sam to snap back a retort, as per usual, but he merely buries his face into his big brother's chest and sniffles. Sniffles like he's crying. Squeezes tighter like he's afraid to let go.

"Aw, jeez, man," Dean groans. "I'm only joking about the hair, Sam. Christ, you're sensitive."

He turns his big green eyes up to John, brow furrowed in confusion in a desperate big brother plea of _'Help me out here, Dad?'_ Dean hates it when he makes his brother cry, much as his endless and sometimes merciless teasing would suggest otherwise; and John can see clearly that the kid has absolutely no idea how to fix this one. So John steps in, plays it cool and gives both his kids the out they need.

"You're such an easy mark, Dean," John tells Dean, ruffling his hair before giving Sam a hearty clap on the back. "Looks like your kid brother's gonna be pickin' up the Oscar this year, right Sammy?"

Dean's brow furrows tightly in utter bewilderment before realization hits, his mouth forming a comical 'o' as he catches on to the ruse. Then he nods once and gives his little brother a playful squeeze before feigning indignation.

"You little punk!" Dean fakes outrage. "You totally had me goin' there."

Sam lifts his head then, eyes a little red and cheeks a little damp, and tries for a playful grin that looks more like a grimace. They're all fooling themselves here, and they all know it, but Winchesters are nothing if not stubborn when denial is the weapon of choice against emotional outbursts and shows of weakness or vulnerability.

"Gotcha!" Sam says, voice only slightly garbled through the remnants of his tears.

Dean gives his hair another playful ruffle, though the gel makes that somewhat difficult, leaving long strands of slick hair to poke out in odd directions. Then they say their goodbyes, Sam waving to his friends and to the drama teacher, Mrs. Croaker, before heading out for pizza. John figures he can at least keep part of the fantasy alive, if only for tonight.

888

The results of the lumbar puncture are in and John gets the news first-hand in the doctor's private office at the hospital, away from the too-young ears of his sons (who are both waiting in chairs in the Oncology ward). The news is bad. Not dire, the oncologist insists, but not good.

"We found abnormal white blood cells in Dean's cerebrospinal fluid," Dr. Hawkins explains as he folds his hands in his lap, his expression aiming for placid but looking more grim than John is comfortable with.

John feels his hands go hot and cold all at once, sweat pooling in his palms.

"What does that mean?" he asks, throat dry. Because it sounds pretty fucking awful.

"It means that the leukemia cells are spreading more rapidly than we'd anticipated," the doctor explains. "Or that we didn't catch it as early as we'd thought."

_Well that isn't fucking good_.

"It's cause for concern," Hawkins admits, "but there's no reason for us to be anything but optimistic at this point. Dean's young and strong, and with the right chemotherapy regimen we're pretty sure we can keep this thing under control."

John gets a brief lesson in Chemotherapy 101 – most of which flies over his head as the horrible truth of Dean's situation swirls in a scrolling marquee through John's worry-stricken brain. Leukemia cells in his cerebrospinal fluid – cancer cells swimming around the fluid around his _spine_ and _brain_. He hears words like aggressive treatment and treatment cycles and really wishes he could just tell the doctor to shut the hell up. Pause. _Rewind_. Jump back a scene or two and rewrite the whole damned script until he gets a different diagnosis.

Aggressive chemotherapy regimen. _Jesus fucking Christ_. That shit's like poison in the blood, John knows, killing off the good cells with the bad. It's so strong it can burn your fucking skin, and they're going to be pumping into Dean's _blood_. They're going to be _aggressive_ with it.

He has to force himself to focus as the doctor goes on to explain treatment options and chemotherapy options. There are different kinds of chemo – John doesn't know the fucking difference – and some are more aggressive than others. The pediatrician and oncologist have put their heads together and decided on a course of treatment that they think will be most effective and they want to start it today.

John has to blink through that one.

"Excuse me?" he asks, clearing his throat through the dryness.

"We want to begin treatment today," Hawkins repeats, slowly and calmly, as if he's explaining the more complex points of cancer treatment to a fucking skittish (and slightly retarded) horse. "We'd like to run a course of intrathecal chemotherapy, which is a direct infusion into the cerebrospinal fluid to ensure that the treatment breaks through what we call the blood-brain barrier."

"The blood-brain barrier?" John hears himself parroting, utterly bewildered.

"The blood vessel walls in the spinal cord and brain are very tightly packed," the doctor says. "It can be difficult for some medications to pass through that barrier. So what we do, to ensure optimum results, is inject directly into the spinal fluid."

"You want to inject that poisonous shit into my son's spine?" John knows his voice is officially several octaves higher than is generally considered acceptable, but right now he really doesn't care.

"Jesus Christ!" he swears, chest clenching and spasming in terror and anguish. "Jesus fucking Christ!"

Here it comes – the massive coronary he always knew his kids would drive him to one day (though he'd always assumed Sam would be the one to drive him to it, not Dean).

"I can give you a moment alone," Hawkins offers delicately, "or perhaps fetch one of the nurses…"

"No!" John snaps. "Fuck – just—no. Just… tell me everything. I want to know what the treatment cycles are going to be like, how long they last, how often he'll be having them. I wanna know what the side effects are – all of them – and whether… if it's gonna hurt him."

John can feel his anger sifting through his heated blood like a gas leak, the temperature dropping as fear sinks her claws into his belly and shreds his guts with dread.

"Will it hurt him?" he asks, sounding to his own ears like a terrified parent who just wants to be lied to. "The chemo treatment in the spine…?" _Tell me he won't feel a thing._

The doctor doesn't smile, doesn't offer any false hope or platitudes, and in a way John's grateful because he doesn't want to be fucking mislead. He wants the truth (if the truth is good news). He needs to know what he's dealing with, damnit.

"It can be painful," Hawkins admits. "Not unbearable, mind you. But the spine is a sensitive area, and the treatment usually takes an hour or two to administer. It's not a pleasant experience, but there are painkillers we can give Dean to help him through the worst of it."

If you were to ask him about it later, John might tell you that a lost spirit flew into his body in that moment and took over for him, infusing him with grief so intense that he lost all sense of his faculties, because hearing those words from the doctor's mouth send the worried father into such a fit of despair that he positively bursts into tears in the middle of the doctor's office. There are no manly shows of gruffness, no grunts or sniffles or pretenses of being stoic or tough. John cries like one lost, grieving deep within his soul for a son who is sick and in pain, a son he loves more than himself, a son who'd somehow become his best friend and hunting partner-in-training.

When John Winchester's in pain, he turns to Dean. Dean who's always ready and waiting, intuitively knowing what it is that his old man needs, whether it be a glass of water and a vicodin, a fresh, clean row of stitches, or a couple fingers' worth of Jack. When John's angry, John turns to Dean. Dean whose bright smile and razor-sharp wit can coax his old man out of any mood; Dean who can distract Sammy and keep him busy when the kid's being particularly ornery and screaming for his father's blood. When John feels wrecked with grief and loss, it's always Dean who comes to ground him with a hand on his shoulder, saying, "It's okay, Dad."

And right now John Winchester is all of those things – hurting, angry, grieving, _terrified_. He's overwhelmed by a storm of emotions so intense he's sure he'll drown in them if he doesn't get some relief, but he can't turn to Dean for comfort or reassurance or distraction this time because _Dean_ is at the core of all of it. This time, Dean's the one who needs him. And John may be a shitty father, but he's not ever gonna make his sick kid play nurse-maid to his old man's feelings because the big bad cancer's got him running scared.

Not in this fucking lifetime.

So he takes his moments of weakness where he can get them, apparently, unloading his heavy burdens onto Dr. Hawkins's desk without making any apologies for it. He cries in silence, a hysterical, cathartic kind of crying that feels a lot like release, and then sucks it all back in and takes a deep, steadying breath. Locks it up. Gets it under control. Reins it in.

"Tell me about the treatment," he says at length.

888

Dean's asleep by the time they get back to their apartment. The sun has long since gone down for the night and the stars, the few that they can see through the cloud cover overhead, anyway, are twinkling feebly in their thick canopy of black. Dean doesn't stir when John shuts off the ignition, and John doesn't bother trying to wake him, just opens the door with a loud creak and carefully lifts him out of the passenger seat. Sam climbs sleepily and wordlessly from the backseat, taking the proffered keys from his father's outstretched hand to unlock the front door.

It's been a long day. All three Winchester men are exhausted and strung out, Dean down for the count with painkillers and sedatives. The chemo treatment went off without a hitch, if you don't count the endless hours of waiting afterwards, though there were headache and nausea issues when they'd finally got Dean standing after more than eight hours lying on his side. Now he's doped up and pretty much comatose, but otherwise doing okay. His face isn't tight with pain, his mouth slack and his expression peaceful, almost dreamy, as he sleeps the sleep of the blissfully drugged.

John almost envies him.

They shuffle their way inside as quietly as they can manage it, with John struggling under the weight of his very muscular fifteen year-old while Sam turns on the lights inside the apartment to light their way. Then they get Dean settled onto the single bed, strip him of his outerwear until he's in nothing but his boxers, and throw some blankets over him to give him some cover.

"That wasn't _so_ bad," Sam whispers timidly from his place at the doorway.

'You ain't seen nothin' yet,' John wants to reply, but doesn't. The worst is yet to come; he knows that. But today was pretty fucking bad. He'd had to watch his eldest child receive another goddamned lumbar puncture, only this time it was to administer a round of chemotherapy. That's not the kind of thing a father wants to see happen to his kids, ever, and it ranks pretty high up there among the top five things any parent would gladly trade places for, to save their children the pain of enduring it themselves.

John would like to ask him just what the hell wasn't so bad about it, considering how fucking awful it was. Wants to smack the hopeful look off the kid's face and demand what the upside to chemotherapy through the spine is, that he can see any kind of fucking silver lining. '_That wasn't so bad_.' He should ask what kind of crack Sam's been smoking, if what they witnessed today wasn't so bad.

"I thought he'd be, y'know… throwing up and stuff," Sam says in place of his father's grim silence. "But he just seems tired. And-and that's not so bad, right? I mean, it could be worse, right? For lots of other people it's worse."

"It's gonna get worse, Sammy," John manages to say through the gravel scraping up his throat. "A whole lot worse."

And because he's too tired to do more than ruffle his bewildered eleven year-old's hair and make a hasty retreat to the liquor cabinet, John doesn't offer up any words of comfort or condolence. He just needs to shut down for a little while, just for a couple of hours, so he can lose himself in the slow burn of whiskey, the quiet oblivion of hard liquor. It's not comfort, exactly. Just… a brief reprieve. Just for a little while.

He leaves Sam without a word, doesn't bother to look back and see the crushed look on the kid's face because he already knows it's there. And he just can't deal with Sam right now. It's shitty and cowardly and pretty much solidifies every bad thing he's ever thought about his own parenting skills, but right now John just doesn't care. He just needs that step back or he's going to explode, probably at Sam, so he leaves his stricken kid for some cold comfort.

It's a short walk to the kitchen to fish around in the cupboard under the sink for the Jack Daniels. Dean's got it buried behind a bucket and a whole host of cleaning products, hidden enough out of his father's sight to be within reach if he needs it, but not in plain view (where it would be if John had been the one to unpack the kitchen supplies). It's a damned relief just to hold the bottle in his hands, to watch the amber liquid sloshing temptingly inside in a silent siren call.

It doesn't take long to numb himself with the slow burn of whiskey. He's been pretty much sober since he started the construction job, the usual beer or two with dinner notwithstanding, of course. And John's not aiming for oblivion, much as he'd like to get completely shit-faced. He just needs to take the edge off enough that he can sleep. Just enough to burn away all those harsh edges, to freeze the deep ache within his chest.

He drinks until he feels his lids drooping with exhaustion and only barely manages to stagger down the hall to his room. He wishes the alcohol had made him deaf when he hears the frantic whispered pleas of his youngest son through the boys' bedroom door as Sam prays, as per his new nightly ritual, in the most pathetic and desperate tones any child could muster.

"Please don't let Dean die, please!" he hears through the door, and has to choke back a wail of despair and rage at the feelings it causes to bubble up within his chest.

'_You hear him, God?'_ he thinks savagely, casting his dark, bleary-eyed gaze up to the ceiling, transmitting his own mental message up to the heavens with choking disdain. He stumbles the rest of the way into his room and falls with a thud to the side of his bed, hands clasping together as his elbows lean on the mattress for support. Supplicating himself.

"You hear him, God?" he repeats aloud. "If you're up there, and you give even half a crap about us down here, then you'll get off your ass and do your goddamned_ job_ and look after my kids.

"You let evil into our house – took Mary from me. You let that happen. You let that _thing_ taint my youngest son. And now you're doing this to Dean, who never… Dean never did anything but do _your_ work, you sonovabitch! He took care of his Mama when she was around, an' he takes care of his old man and his little brother. He does that and he never complains.

"An' he's a fine hunter – he _saves lives_, while most kids are busy bitchin' at their parents for this new CD or that new pair of jeans or whatever. He's gonna do so much good in this world, and he never asks for a damned thing.

"He's a good kid. He doesn't deserve this. You don't even know what you're messin' with, but it needs to stop, all right? It needs to stop. Because I can't… I can't lose my boys, either of them. I can't lose 'em. I can't lose Dean. He's… He's my best friend, and my little soldier, and my baby boy, and I can't lose 'im. You hear me? I can't lose him!"

John talks and pleads with the Almighty until sleep takes him where he sits, crouched on the floor, his upper body slumped bonelessly on the bed with his legs tucked under him on the floor. It's uncomfortable as hell, but exhaustion takes him deep into a dreamless sleep, where thoughts of chemotherapy and death and destiny and God don't follow.

888

When Sam wakes up the next morning, it's to find that his brother's bed is empty. He jackknifes up into a sitting position, heart beating a mile a minute while his brain tries to make sense of that empty bed.

'_It's happening,'_ he thinks. _'The chemo's doing its thing and Dean's throwing up and he's all alone!'_

In a mad flail of limbs tangled in blankets, Sam manages to throw himself from the bed. He tosses on a pair of sweatpants and socks and opens the bedroom door, intent on meeting his brother in the bathroom to offer comfort while he pukes, but the smell of bacon and toast and coffee assaults his senses as he stands in his doorway. Immediately he can hear the familiar rumble of his father's voice and thinks that Dad must be on the phone. But then Dean's laugh joins the mix and Sam is awash with relief.

Right now everything's okay.

He stumbles down the hallway, past the blessedly empty bathroom, into the communal area, where he rests his palm on the empty couch as his gaze turns towards the kitchen. His father is sitting at the table with the morning paper and a cup of coffee. Dean's standing at the stove in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants, a spatula in hand, as bacon sizzles in a pan. Sam takes in the sight of his big brother's pale face and twinkling eyes, frowning in confusion. Dean looks… He looks okay.

"Mornin,' sunshine!" Dean snickers with a wide grin.

Sam's pretty sure he woke up too quickly, because he feels only half with it, the enticing smells of breakfast filling up what little brain function he has. He should probably go pee – his bladder's getting pretty insistent – but finds himself just standing there, only half-awake.

"Nice hair," Dad says, voice dry and rough, and Dean's snickers turn into chuckles as he eyes his little brother with amusement.

Sam starts and pats his head down to test it, noticing with a grimace that it's standing up in a wild, frightening display of bedhead. Then Dean's chuckles evolve into full laughter, and even Dad (who looks a bit like roadkill) joins in. It's enough to get Sam out of his stupor, anyway. He flips his brother the bird and heads to the bathroom to ease his suffering bladder and see if he can tame the beast on his head.

When he finally makes his way back to the kitchen he is feeling both alert and _hungry_. They really hadn't done much eating yesterday, what with the chemotherapy and the worrying themselves sick, and right now the greasy bacon scent on the air mingling with just slightly burnt toast is making Sam's mouth water. He feels like he could eat a horse, and by the looks of it, Dean's cooked enough breakfast fixins to feed a small army. Awesome.

He takes a seat at the table, sitting opposite his father so that he can keep as much distance between them as possible. He's still pretty hurt and pissed about Dad's dismissal the night before, especially considering the way he'd just dropped that 'It's gonna get worse' bombshell before he left. Plus, he looks kinda hungover, which Sam's always hated. He hates, hates, hates when his Dad drinks.

"Eat up!" Dean says cheerfully as he plunks a plate mounded high with fluffy, yellow scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and butter-slathered toast. Sam can tell just by looking at them that Dean added a bit of cheese to the eggs, just the way Sam likes 'em, and there's orange juice already waiting in a glass for him.

"Thanks, Dean," he smiles up at his big brother. "This looks really good."

"Course it's good," Dean scoffs. "Dude, I'm an awesome cook."

He plunks another similarly-stacked plate in front of Dad, only this one's got about three-times the amount of eggs and bacon on it, and there's an extra slice of toast with jam on it. Dean watches as Dad picks up his fork and begins digging into the eggs, giving Sammy a proud thumbs up when Dad grunts in pleasure around a steaming mouthful, and then promptly seats himself at the table with a small, saucer-sized plate with a single piece of toast on it for himself.

"'z'at all you're eating?" Dad mouths around a mass of partially chewed toast and bacon, one eyebrow arched questioningly.

Dean shrugs and picks off a corner of toast, nibbling on it absently.

"Not really hungry," he admits. "Think I'll reheat some later."

Right. _Later_.

Sam's irritation at their father grows at this revelation. Dean's obviously not hungry because he's not feeling well, because he just got his first round of _chemotherapy_ yesterday and he's feeling like crap. And here Dad is, sitting at the table reading the stupid newspaper and drinking his stupid coffee (which Sam belatedly realizes was probably served to him by Dean), while Dean bustles around the kitchen making breakfast for everybody – breakfast he's not even going to eat. And Dean's the one that's sick: it's not supposed to be his job to do this stuff anymore. Dad's supposed to be the one taking care of the family, for once. Or maybe, now that Dean's down for the count with this cancer, maybe it's Sam's turn to pick up the slack and play housemaid for the Winchester clan. That's probably it. Dad probably expects Sam to do all this stuff. Sam who doesn't even know how to use the oven, and who couldn't cook to save his life. Sam who's never done laundry before and doesn't know how to turn the machine on.

"You shouldn't have let him make breakfast," Sam snaps, giving his father the sternest glare he can muster. "He's sick, Dad. You said it wasn't his job anymore to look after—"

Dad snaps the newspaper closed with a resounding thwap and glares right back.

"He was already out here cooking when I woke up," Dad growls. "But for future reference, I don't have to answer to you, Sam. So I'd appreciate if you watched your damned tone with me. I don't care for your language, and I don't care for that clever bit of sign language you did earlier."

At first Sam's completely baffled, but then he remembers flipping them off when they'd made fun of his hair. He should have known that his Dad would pick up on it and ream him for it. Nothing gets past John Winchester, especially if it gives him a chance to criticize his youngest son.

"Dean swears all the time," Sam challenges. "You never complain about his clever bits of sign language."

"Dean doesn't talk back to me," Dad returns as he leans forward against the table, his eyes dark and angry. "And I washed his damned mouth out with soap if he got foul with it when he was only _eleven_."

"Ah, sudsy goodness," Dean says wistfully. "Good times."

He steals a piece of bacon from Dad's plate and bites the end off of it, grinning when Dad blinks in surprise. Then he stabs a fork into Sam's pile of eggs and stuffs a bite into his mouth, chomping loudly and obnoxiously and drawing all eyes on him.

"You guys gonna eat or what?" he says through partially-chewed bacon and eggs, and that breaks the tension enough that the stand-off between father and son ends.

"It's real good, Dean," Dad says as his whole demeanor softens. His eyes crinkle into a smile, the tension melts from his features, and his dimples come out to say hello as he looks at Dean the way Sam wishes Dad would look at him. "Real good." And then he resumes stuffing food into his face, making a show of forgetting the fight ever happened, so Sam's forced to do the same or risk looking like a stubborn jerk.

Which he flat out refuses to do, because Dad's the stubborn jerk. Sam's just trying to be reasonable.

"Good," Dean grins. "'Cos I'd hate to be stuck at this table with you two bitchin' and wastin' all that delicious food."

He cackles when Dad gives him a warning glare, and it's enough to ease the tension for good. Even Sam finds himself grinning, marveling once again at his brother's sheer cheek.

When breakfast is done Dad sends Dean to the shower and makes Sam do the dishes. Sam tries really hard to hold back his objections, but his frustration levels spring to the surface so quickly he can barely contain himself until Dean has left the room. He's just positive that man's going to start rifling through obituaries and headlines looking for the next hunt, and the very idea of it has him brisling like a cat with its hackles raised.

"What are _you_ going to be doing?" he demands to know when the sound of the shower turning on reaches the kitchen.

Dad turns to face him with a tired look in his eyes, but his mouth is tight and his brows are drawn together like he's trying really hard not to get angry. He sighs loudly and lets his arms fall limply at his sides, his head bowed in defeat.

"Paperwork," he says dully. "Shit tons of paperwork so that we can afford the hospital bill the next time Dean has to stay overnight."

"Oh," Sam mumbles. He hadn't thought of that.

"Is that okay with you, Sam?" Dad snarks. "Is doing some chores around the house really too much to ask at a time like this?"

The accusation stings and Sam actually flinches. He didn't mean… He doesn't mind doing chores. (Okay, he hates it, but he knows it won't kill him.) It's just that he'd thought… And Dad had been reading the newspaper. And he hasn't been hunting in almost a month.

"You said you'd pull your weight around here," Dad goes on, though his tone has softened again. "We've barely just started with the chemo, and I need to know that I can count on you like I can count on Dean."

Ouch. There it is again. _'Dean's perfect and you're not,'_ talk. Sam bets his Dad wishes it was him that had cancer and not Dean. What a waste to have the perfect son, the perfect soldier, sick and possibly dying, when there's a perfectly useless son who does nothing but disappoint him. It hurts so bad, thinking thoughts like this, because Sam figures it's probably true.

_It's probably your fault anyway_, Sam reasons. _If you're the reason this is happening to Dean, you __**deserve**__ to take the cancer in his place_.

So Sam pulls his chin up and holds back any arguments he'd throw at his father under any other circumstances. He raises his head and looks the man straight in the eyes.

"Yes sir," he says with determination. "You can count on me."

Dad nods in acknowledgment and goes to his room to sort through some paperwork, leaving Sam to finish up the dishes. He takes his time, small hands scrubbing with a limp, sudsy cloth that has zero scrubbing power over dishes so old and ravaged by use that everything sticks. He doesn't mind, though. It gives him some time to himself to just think.

The messenger from his dream still hasn't come back, hasn't answered his prayers or given any kind of indication that he's even heard them. Sam's found himself wondering if the dream was even real. Maybe it was just a byproduct of his overactive imagination and wishful thinking, that angels would actually be interested in him and give half a horse hooey about what he wanted. He half hopes that it was just a dream so that Dean's cancer won't be Sam's fault. Maybe he was always going to get cancer, and maybe Sam's dream had absolutely nothing to do with it. Because really, why would a messenger of God have yellow eyes, anyway?

But if it was a dream, then it means he can't undo it. If it was a dream, no amount of praying will make any difference, probably, in seeing Dean cured. If Sam did wish this on his brother, however inadvertently or unknowingly, then that at least means there's a chance he can wish or pray it away. He really doesn't want Dean's cancer to be his fault, but at the same time, he really, really, really wants to be able to save him from it.

If only the angel would answer him!

The day is pretty boring after the excitement of breakfast. Dad's buried in paperwork and Dean's tired, so the boys lounge in front of the TV and watch crappy, grainy old programs that Dean says weren't even cool back when they were cool. Sam wishes they could go out, but Dean's looking kind of green, his face kind of pinched, so they stay put.

Then at around 3:00 they catch the beginning of _Bloodsport_ and things don't seem quite so drab. They've already seen the movie about a million times, which means they spend more time reciting the lines as they're delivered than actually watching the movie, but it's good for a laugh and they both enjoy it. At every commercial break Dean points a crooked index finger at Sam and exclaims, "You are NECKS!" and for some reason the joke just doesn't get old; they laugh at it every single time. They laugh at the villain's man-boobs and poor acting, until the pinnacle of hilarity is reached when Jean-Claude Van Damme has his bug-eyed blind fighting scene and Dean practically convulses with laughter on the couch.

Sam watches his brother losing his breath with the force of his laughing fit and wishes it could just stay like this. _Why can't it stay like this?_ he laments. _This is good. This is nice. Me and Dean watching a movie and laughing and having fun. No hunting and no cancer. Just us. Why can't we have this?_

But he can't have this, apparently. Not forever, anyway.

When the movie's over Dad enlists Sam's help with peeling potatoes for supper while Dean goes to have a lie down (not a nap – Dean's too big and manly to have a nap). Dad prepares mashed potatoes and some kind of weird-looking gray, goopy ground beef concoction he says is 'hamburger gravy' and 'It's good, Sammy! Your grandma used to make this for me when I was a kid.' Sam doubts it's even edible, since Dad's the one making it, but keeps his mouth shut on that score. No sense picking a fight with the man when he's finally doing what Sam's wanted him to do since as long as he can remember.

It certainly smells good. There are fried onions in it, and pepper and some spices, and Sam finds his mouth watering as he watches it bubble in the saucepan while the potatoes boil determinedly on the next burner in perfect counterpoint. He dares hope it might even be tasty.

"Have a little faith, Sammy," Dad says lightly. "I may look like I got no soft skills, but I am truly a man of many talents."

And he grins in a way that reminds Sam so much of Dean that he feels a pang deep in his chest, flutterings of jealousy and isolation and love so fierce he wants to do something really crazy like hug his Dad. Then, without even really realizing what he's doing, he finds himself with his arms wrapped tightly around his Dad's waist, holding on for dear life in an embrace that startles them both. He buries his nose in his Dad's belly and just squeezes, not daring to show his face because he's embarrassed for having done it in the first place, and because he's afraid he might cry if he sees those dark brown eyes looking down into his.

This is what he's always wanted. This Dad, right here, is the one he's been yearning for.

"I love you too, Sammy," Dad all but whispers as he lands a calloused hand on the top of Sam's head in an affectionate pat that leaves Sam feeling warm and _loved_.

They remain like that just long enough for it to almost become awkward, then pull away from each other, both blushing and clearing their throats in a manly way.

"So," Dad says at length. "How 'bout you go see if your brother's up for eating some of this gourmet cooking, huh?"

Sam grins, cheeks dimpling, and scampers off to their room to see if Dean's awake.

He pries the door open quietly and peeks his head in, noticing right away that the curtains are closed, the blinds drawn, so that the room is dark. Dean's huddled under the blankets, looking like a big, round lump under the covers, and the mound is shaking.

"Dean?" Sam whispers. The feeling of lightness he's been carrying with him all afternoon gets heavy real quick and sinks like a stone into his gut. "Dean, you okay?"

The trembling mound freezes for an instant before the shaking resumes, and Dean's voice, when it comes, is breathy and tight on the exhale.

"'m fine," his voice says from within the quivering mound. "Just need t'sleep. Go 'way."

He doesn't sound fine.

Sam creeps around the bed and takes a good look at his brother, noting the pinched expression on Dean's face, the glimmering sheen of sweat on his face and neck, the way his legs are tucked up towards his chest like they were yesterday for the spinal tap chemo treatment. He's shivering and white-faced and looks to be in a lot of pain.

_It's gonna get worse, Sammy. A whole lot worse._

"Dean…?"

"Just go away, Sam," Dean hisses beneath the blankets. "Leave me alone!"

"Okay," Sam whispers as he backs away. "Okay." His heart hammers violently in his chest and his fingers feel icy as sweat gathers in his palms, making them cold and clammy.

"Okay," he repeats as he crosses the threshold of their room and backs out into the hallway. Then he spins on a heel and runs like a bat out of hell to find his Dad.

Dad'll know what to do.

888

Sam eats his supper that evening alone at the kitchen table. His fork dangles listlessly from limp fingers as he pokes and prods at the hamburger gravy, barely taking in the delicious taste with half-hearted bites as the food grows steadily colder on his barely-touched plate. He stares at his plate, through the gray-brown lumpy mass of ground beef and potato and gravy, through the table, and maybe even through the earth itself, as he listens to the sound of his brother throwing up down the hall.

Dad's with Dean, taking care of business. He won't let Sam help; won't let Sam even be there to offer sympathy or comfort. Just ordered Sam to sit at the table and eat his supper – so here Sam sits, at the table, eating his supper, while his brother's first cancer treatment ravages his body behind closed doors.

He can hear the hacking, gagging sounds Dean makes every time he pukes, can practically feel his own insides twisting up in sympathy for his big brother as he's taken again and again by heaves of sickness. Dean's never been one to get sick often, but when he does it's always a bit of a production. He's not a quiet puker (though Sam supposes not many people are); he moans and gags and makes these awful half-choking sounds that make Sam feel like throwing up just hearing them. Sometimes Sam hears their father's voice through the bathroom door, soothing in a deep baritone with _'there-there's_ and _'It's okay, kiddo's_ and other such platitudes that mean nothing but always help nonetheless. And sometimes he hears Dean exclaim an exasperated _'Oh God,'_ or simple, _'Fuck!'_ as he spits and breathes deep.

Sam forces down as much as he can and then covers the cold plate of food with cellophane to store it in the fridge for later. He'll get away with barely eating because of the circumstances, but Dad'd have his ass if he wasted it. Since they're staying in one place, Dad's had to rely on legitimate means of procuring income, which means no credit card scams. And Dean's prescriptions, Dad said, are very expensive. Sam figures they'll probably be having a lot of hamburger gravy in the months to come, seeing as how cheap potatoes and ground beef are compared to other vegetable or meat options.

When he's done, Sam goes to his bedroom and lies in bed, staring at the rumpled blanket on Dean's bed in a numb haze.

He feels selfish for thinking it, but he doesn't want to sleep in here if Dean's sick in the next bed. It's smelly and noisy and disruptive, and Sam's gag reflex wants to jump into action every time Dean throws up. He just doesn't think he could stand it. He's only a kid, after all, and kids react to other kids puking like tumbling lines of dominos: one goes down and then the whole line follows.

Later, though, he's saved having to worry about sleeping arrangements because Dad sets Dean up in his bed, down the hall. He comes in briefly to give Sam an update on the situation, sitting at the foot of Sam's bed with a heavy sigh.

"Well, his stomach seems to have settled a little," Dad says, his voice sounding like tires over gravel. "I've put him in my bed so I can watch him through the night, make sure I'm around in case he needs anything."

Sam nods and pulls the blankets in tighter around his body.

"How're you doin'?" Dad asks quietly as he reaches out with his big hand to wipe the long brown locks out of Sam's eyes. "You manage to keep yourself from pukin' through all that?"

It's meant to be teasing, but they're both too tired and shaken to laugh at it. The truth is, Sam just barely managed to keep what little supper he ate down. If the sheer grossness of hearing someone else vomiting hadn't been enough to set him off, then the gut-twisting worry for his brother would have done it for him. It's a miracle Sam didn't throw up.

"Gagged a couple times," Sam admits with a shrug that Dad can't see. Then, biting his lips, he dares ask, "Dad? Is Dean gonna be okay?"

Dad slumps a bit, like the world's weighing him down just a little bit more than usual, and sighs.

"Yeah, Sam," he says. "Dean's gonna be okay. It's not—it's not gonna be easy. That chemo's some really nasty shit running through his system right now. So he's not feeling good, Sam. Fact, he's feeling pretty shitty. But it's killin' the cancer cells, so in the long run it's a good thing. Dean knows that. And he'll… He'll be okay. Are _you_ okay?"

'I'm not the one with cancer, Dad,' he wants to say, but doesn't.

The truth is, Sam doesn't feel okay. He feels pretty rotten. His brother's really sick, and it might be his fault. And Dad's looking more stressed and tired than he ever did when he was hunting. Everything's so _uncertain_, and in the back of his head Sam keeps hearing this awful voice telling him, _'Your brother's gonna die! Your brother's gonna die!'_ and he's terrified that it's true.

"I'm okay," he says instead. Because Dad doesn't need to worry about Sam's freak-outs right now. He's got Dean twisted in on himself with pain and waiting for him in his bed, and he doesn't need to be soothing one kid when the other one needs him more. Dean needs him more.

And when he says it, Dad looks so relieved that Sam knows he made the right choice.

"Okay," Dad breathes. "You sleep tight, slugger. I'm gonna need your help in the morning."

"'kay."

Sam resolves to pray extra, extra, _extra_ hard tonight so that he can relieve the burden on everyone. If angels are really up there, they have to listen to him. They just have to.

TBC...

End Note: If you liked it, please drop me a line to say so! Like most everyone else here, I'm a review junkie! (And I gave you a nice, big, honkin' chapter, too!)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for the lateness, folks! I was out of town for a couple of weeks for a wedding and then lost a week to exhaustion and jetlag. As always, all mistakes are mine. And also, as always, I do not own (no copyright infringement intended).

Chapter 4

So this summer pretty much blows.

As far as let-downs go, this one's pretty high up there on his list. School ends for the year, which should mean freedom and celebration and all kinds of other awesome youthful exploratory bad things that Dad'll kick his ass for later. Not that he'd been expecting keg parties and chicks in bikinis or anything, but there'd been the odd NC-17 rated fantasy or two floating around in his mind. Sex, drugs, and Rock 'n Roll, or something like that. And hunting. Dad was gonna let him try out this wicked crossbow down at Caleb's shooting range, and there'd been talk back in February about a pattern of disappearances Dad had picked up on a yearly cycle every year in late July down in New Mexico that had Satanic Cult Ritual stamped all over it. And Dad was maybe gonna take him.

That's how things were _supposed_ to be.

How things are, though? They suck. Out loud.

Dad's not hunting. That's usually item number one on the Winchester 'Oh shit! It's gonna hit the fan!' meter. When Dad's not hunting he gets pissed. And when he gets pissed he drinks. And when he drinks he's freakin' _impossible_. Kodiaks have got more patience than Dad when he's stuck in some shithole town with nothing to hunt and too much time on his hands to think about Mom and the thing that killed her. And that's exactly where the old man is now, only he's too damned busy to bury himself in a bottle like he usually does. Instead he's working extra hours at some shit construction job, getting up at the ass crack of dawn to be on site building houses for rich bitches with fancy cars and time shares in the Keyes. And when he's not working, he's busy chauffeuring Dean around to doctor's appointments and chemo treatments and specialists for blood tests, standing in waiting rooms for hours while the attendants prep Dean for a scan or a biopsy or a lumbar puncture. There's no end to the waiting, the endless forms, the insurance bills that have Dad waking in a cold sweat in the middle of the night and crying sometimes when he thinks no one can hear.

And then there's Sam. Sam is like Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde. One minute he's a normal, oblivious kid all stoked to go to a birthday party at the water park, self-absorbed and happy/whiny/cranky/sulky/sappy the way normal 11 year-olds are from one moment to the next. He's doing his own thing and contenting himself with his friends and his books and his geeked-out whatever. And the next moment it's like someone flipped a switch and he's suddenly _a girl_. Then Sam's a freakin' blubbery mess who's suddenly found God – and let me tell you, the Born Again thing isn't nearly so funny when you're the one stuck living with it. Sam prays and prays and prays and prays and tugs on that damned rosary, head all bowed and hands pressed together in the perfect image of supplication and piety. Praying in desperate mumbles to an indifferent God to not let his big brother die.

And Dean would feel guilty about that – he really would, 'cos it sure as hell isn't Sam's fault that Dean's got shit for blood in his bone marrow – except the chemo's pretty much sapping him of the will to live and he doesn't have the energy to put on the brave face all the time like he wants to. Strong language? Yes. An exaggeration? Not so much.

They blink and time fast-forwards, finding themselves already on Round 3 of the chemo treatment regime, and things are starting to go downhill fast. Dean's been pretty brave, he figures, all things considered. He's spent days at a time huddled on the bathroom floor, shivering and puking and sweating away his own body mass as cramps twist up his insides so bad he ends up tied up in knots like a pretzel. He can't really eat anything but dry crackers and water, so the weight's just melting off him like butter on a hot grill. And his hair's falling out; in fact it's mostly gone now. At first he thought he'd just shave it off, save himself the hassle and upset of watching it fall out one chunk at a time, but then he got scared that it'd never grow back, or that he'd die without ever getting cured, and would forget what it looked and felt like to have hair at all. So he'd desperately clung to what was left of the sandy blonde strands, watched it wither like sun-gorged, dried vines and fall out in halos every morning around his head on the pillow.

Pathetic? Yeah. One of his teachers last year, some uptight, ramrod bitch of a nun named Sister Pattie, had told him that he was vain and that God punished those who thought too highly of their own appearance. In light of recent events, Dean's pretty sure his answer to her threat would probably be different now, if he had it to do over again. Instead of telling her to go fuck herself, he'd probably tell God Himself to do the honour, the sadistic bastard.

But he's got this beanie hat that covers his head pretty good, and it doesn't even look half bad. He's too fuckin' pale, nothin' he can do about that, and the dark circles under his eyes are like tattoos on his face advertising 'Sick Person.' But he's still a handsome sonovabitch, and he does what he can to preserve that for whenever he leaves the house. It isn't often these days.

During the recovery periods, when he's off the chemo, things go back to normal. He gets his appetite back and eats real food, and starts feeling a bit like a living person again. It's not great: he still feels weak as a newborn foal and tired pretty much all the time. But it's like… It's like it's all the time he's got, you know? So he makes of it what he can, stepping back into his big brother role when he can, fixin' supper for his Dad and brother like he used to when he can. Because when the next chemo round starts everything pretty much shuts down, and then all Dean can focus on is just keeping it together from one moment to the next, on just making it through the next day, and the next day, and the next, until the chemo's done its thing and the worst has passed and _he's still alive _so he can do it all over again.

It's harder than he thought it'd be. Draining. Like, he never thought he'd be so damned tired, or depressed. They don't tell you that chemo sometimes makes you feel like offing yourself, that the puking and cramping and shaking and dizziness make you feel so fucking helpless and out of control that you just want to swallow your Dad's gun and fucking end it already. They don't tell you that.

Instead the doctors and nurses dance around the subject and offer _counseling_, handing out pamphlets about group support sessions and private therapists – which, no way. Winchesters don't get head shrunk. That's a recipe for disaster even Sam knows better than to indulge in (or he does if he knows what's good for him).

And it's not like Dean would ever actually do it anyway (kill himself, that is, though he'd never do the counseling thing either). For one, he's not that selfish. If he was going to kill himself, he might as well shoot Dad and Sammy first, 'cos no way could they get by without him. There's a small niggling voice in the back of his mind that taunts they'd be better off with him gone, but he ignores it in favour of the reality of facts: which are that Dean takes care of his Dad and his little brother, and they need him to do that. Even if they didn't fall down and die at his loss, they'd surely flounder. Who'd get Sam's lunches ready in the morning? Who'd stitch Dad up after a hunt and make sure he got to bed without passing out on the couch? Who'd help Sam with his Math homework and make sure the rent got paid on time when Dad took too long to get back from a hunt? And maybe that'll all change when Sam's grown up and doesn't need Dean anymore, or when Dad finally gets his revenge and doesn't need Dean as his right hand man anymore. But for now? For now Dean's a freakin' one-man army for his family.

So Dean's job – looking after his family – comes first, even if he sometimes finds himself wishing he could just go to sleep and not wake up. Anyway, suicide's for sissies who suck at living. And no matter how shitty things get, Dean's not ever gonna let living be one of the things he sucks at.

Of course, there's also the fact that there's supposedly a light at the end of this shitty-assed cancer-shaped tunnel.

Dean's _going_ to get better. The endless poking and prodding and blood testing all show the same thing: the treatment seems to be doing its job. The mutant white blood cells aren't growing as fast as they were, or have stopped growing, or something. The counts are looking 'promising,' as Dr. Hawkins is so fond of saying. They haven't killed the cancer yet, but they're slowing it down, and the chemo treatment they've chosen is doing its thing better than the doctors thought it would. So putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger would be a lot like throwing out the baby with the bath water. If he just keeps fighting and hangs in there, they'll beat it and then it'll be _over_.

Third reason he doesn't stick his head in the oven or take a long walk off a short pier… (and this is just between you and me) … Dean's afraid. There's not much in this world that scares Dean Winchester. Losing Dad or Sam, or failing them? That's number one on his nightmare chart. Goes without saying. Rats, he could do without. With their beady eyes and long, worm-like tails, he'll admit that they freak him right the hell out. Flying, which defies gravity and sends his heart positively racing to even contemplate, is an issue he hasn't had to face yet, though he figures some day he'll be forced to admit to it. But he's fifteen years old, and aside from hunting things that most people think are only part of their worst nightmares, Dean hasn't _done_ anything yet.

He's never got his license (a real one, anyway), or graduated high school. He's never been to the Grand Canyon or – hell, seen a donkey show. He's never been married or even had sex yet. Never had kids or fallen in love or… or owned a car (_the Impala – please, Dad! – the Impala!_).

In truth, Dean Winchester is afraid to die.

He figures it's natural for everyone to fear their own impending death, especially for people like him who are sick, when the inevitable 'some day' starts to look a lot more like 'maybe tomorrow' or even ' maybe today.' Because when you're sick, the whole concept of death stops looking quite so abstract and becomes a whole lot more concrete. It's one thing to be fifteen and imagine yourself getting gutted by a bezoar or having your heart ripped out by a werewolf. Those things are a flash in the pan – fleeting thoughts on adrenaline high that leap into the brain and leap right back out again. Sure Dean's considered his own death, especially since he started hunting with his Dad. It's kind of hard not to, really.

But being sick, feeling his body fighting against him, feeling it let him down with headaches and nosebleeds and lightheadedness, vomiting, cramps, diarrhea… It makes the whole death thing feel a lot more immediate, like the Grim Reaper himself is on stand-by with his big old scythe just waiting to snuff him out.

It's made worse by the complete loss of control the situation forces on him. At the hospital, especially, Dean feels like his body is just one giant piece of meat to be poked and prodded at. With each new visit he's more convinced that the entire medical field is peopled with sociopaths, and that these treatments and tests and procedures are the tortured play of the collective psychotic mind of the medical community. Sometimes he doesn't feel like a person when he gets laid on that exam table and the testing begins. He's not even there to the various doctors and nurses. He's just an arm or a leg or a hip or a spine. He's an organic system of collaborative functions that need to be monitored.

There are an endless number of clipboards that get carted from exam room to test room to procedure room where his bowel movements are monitored, his heart rate recorded, his urine samples examined. Never mind that most of these procedures are invasive and humiliating and dehumanizing, there's no time for shame for fifteen year-old boys with cancer when teams of doctors get a sneak peek of his junk during an ultrasound, or when the night nurse during a two-day inpatient stay comes to collect stool samples.

There's no time for modesty, no room to be embarrassed, when you've got a disease and there's a medical team 'on it.' All the same, Dean feels so distanced from himself, or from the 'self' he used to be before everything in his life was about cancer, as well as distanced from everyone else. Sometimes it's like he's standing outside of everything and watching the whole world lose its mind. He watches the doctors conferring over the latest blood work, watches the nurses offering comforting smiles as the needlepoint of an IV catheter slides under the skin and into a vein, watches as people talk around him, talk about him, but rarely _to _him, about the latest surprise his body's cooked up for their charts. He watches Dad and Sam stumble through their paces in the new routine of normal they've got going at home. Watches them struggle not to fall into old habits because _'Dean's sick'_ and _'Dean needs his sleep'_ and _'Dean needs a positive environment so he can keep his strength up.'_ (And that last one made Dean laugh until he puked, because seriously, Dad talking about 'positive environments' had to be one of the signs of the apocalypse.)

It's kinda lonely having cancer. And it's weird, because now that he's sick he's getting more attention on a daily basis than he ever had in the last ten years growing up. He's got Dad's unwavering support and strength behind him every step of the way, and Sam's big, somber eyes and furious prayers, along with hosts of doctors, nurses, and medical personnel holding his hand, talking him through the worst of the sickness and pain when they remember to, _taking care of him_. But he feels more alone than ever because he's… he's different now, and they all look at him different now. Like they could breathe and blow him over; like he could go away at any moment. Like he's not of this world anymore.

It's worse when he has to stay in the Peds ward overnight. There nothing is like home. The lights are too bright and the nurses too disruptive with their all-hours check-ups. It's noisy and busy and almost impossible to get a moment to himself. He usually ends up sharing a room with other sick kids, who he can hear crying or sniffling through the night. Sometimes he just sits awake in the dark and catches the occasional eerie glimmer of light glinting off the white in the eyes of some other kid staring through the darkness like he is. On those nights he lets himself curl up and cry as dread forms in a choking lump in his throat, and loneliness pulls his bones to the mattress and pins them there.

The only thing he can console himself with is knowing that it's him going through all this and not Sam. If a Winchester has to have leukemia, then it's good that it's Dean. 'Cos Dad's got a job to do, and he takes care of them the best way he can while he's out there _saving lives_, and if he was laid up with cancer Dean's pretty sure the whole fuckin' world would just stop. And Sammy… Sammy can't get sick like this. It's just unfathomable. Sometimes when Dean's squinting his eyes shut against the pain of the needle sliding into his spine, he'll picture Sammy in his place, dimpled cheeks twisted into a tight grimace as tears squeeze past those wide, cat-slanted eyes, imagines his little brother's sharp intake of breath and whimper of pain, and it's all Dean can do to not lose it right there on the gurney and start bawling like a baby. If Sammy had to go through this it would just be so, so horrible. Dean doesn't think either he or Dad could take it happening to Sammy. Sammy's too important, too vulnerable and soft and innocent for something like this to touch him, no matter that he's got enough spunk and attitude to make Dad want to murder him half the time. Sam's just too precious for something like this to touch him.

So Dean figures he can take it. He doesn't like it – _hell no_ – but he can survive it because he has to. Dying really isn't an option. There's the fact that he's needed, and the fact that he's still got shit to do (like have sex), and the whole being not ready to die thing. It sucks major ass, but life sucking isn't really anything new, so Dean soldiers on. It's what he does best.

There might be one teeny, tiny perk to being sick, in the form of one non-psychotic, non-robotic, non-sociopathic nurse named Lois, whose deep brown eyes and honeyed voice have been with Dean through most of his tests and treatments. He can't really get a handle on how old she is (she won't tell him), but he figures she's got to be under 30. She's gorgeous in that wholesome, non-made up way that makes her look clean and fresh. Dark hair that's always pulled back in a ponytail or bun falls out in wild frizzy swirls around her temples and ears, and Dean's ashamed to admit that it's possibly the sexiest thing he's ever seen (like the way the fine baby hairs at the nape of her neck curl loose from the bindings of her ponytail or hair clip). One time he watched her twist it up with a fist and hold the hair in place in a sloppy bun by stabbing it with a pencil.

Resourceful _and_ sexy.

But she's cool. And funny. And she talks to Dean like he's a person and not just a faceless patient or, worse, just a kid. She laughs at his jokes and calls him honey without being at all condescending, and when she holds his hand through biopsies and ultrasounds he lets her because she's warm and smells really, really good.

They've got this running joke where he flirts with her and she shakes her head at his antics and calls him a heartbreaker, and says 'If you were older I'd be in a lot of trouble' and he thinks, lamely, 'If I were older I'd never break your heart' but doesn't say that because it is supremely cheesy. And even though he's got cancer and can pretty much use it as a free pass for all kinds of dumbass shit coming out of his mouth (like crying during the second chemo treatment 'cos it hurt more than it was supposed to), Dean is way too proud and too macho to ever admit aloud to a sentiment like that.

Doesn't mean he doesn't think it, though.

Like right now, he's got at least a three-night inpatient stay at the Peds ward because Dad's taken all the family leave time he can at his job and needs the overtime to pay for the last round of Dean's anti-nausea medication and various other prescriptions, and Dean's blood counts are low enough that the doctors are worried about infection without proper home care. And – wonder of wonders – the summer's suddenly freaking _over_ and Sam's back in school again (while Dean, notably, _isn't_). Dean's arm has healed and the cast is gone, but that's about the only good thing to happen to him since this whole mess started. Now the damned social worker insists on inpatient care every time Dean needs treatment for anything, claiming that an empty house just isn't stable enough for him to stay at alone while he 'fights.'

So Dean's stuck here in a room full of other sick kids, away from Dad and away from Sam, ready to pull his hair out with boredom (if he still had any) and trying so very hard not to get lonely and weepy. But then Lois is there, fiddling with the IV bag connected to the PICC line in Dean's arm (gotta keep him hydrated through all the puking), and she's got her lips pursed together as she concentrates on her task, looking so pretty and capable and perfect as she leans in close to make the necessary adjustments. The PICC line is a recent addition, and though Dean had objected to it at first, he's pretty damned glad for it now, since it means a lot less attack on the rest of his veins for drawing blood or administering drugs. It's kind of uncomfortable and makes him feel anxious if he looks at it too long, because it doesn't come out – even when the hospital visits are done, but it's better than being skewered day after day while nurses struggle with increasingly weak veins. Not even Lois could make that fun or sexy.

It probably says something about Dean's Mommy issues that he's totally latching onto this woman who's twice his age and all maternal for him with the care-giving, seeing as she's his nurse and all, but he's practiced enough at denial that he can push it away and just focus on the very wonderful distraction of _her presence_.

She's got light purple scrubs with balloons on 'em today, and her hair's up in the ponytail again (Dean's favourite). She grabs the clipboard and writes something else on Dean's chart and then absently runs the back of her hand along Dean's forehead. She frowns and raises her big, doe eyes to him.

"You're warm," she comments.

"Correction," Dean grins smugly. "Smokin' _hot_."

Lois peers down at him and pauses in her ministrations to give him a squint-eyed, hopeless grin in return, shaking her head at his boldness as usual.

"You never quit, do you?"

"Nope." He folds his arms across his chest, careful of the IV line in the crook of his elbow, and leans back casually, or aiming for it, anyway. "I know you keep bringin' up the age thing, but if you come to my way of thinkin' I think you'll see that there are some definite advantages to dating a younger man."

"Oh yeah?" her voice quivers with an amused laugh. "Like what?"

Dean allows his smile to linger, pausing for effect as she watches him with a raised eyebrow, waiting.

"Recovery time," he says at length.

Lois snorts an incredulous laugh and bends at the waist, shoulders hitching as she whoops in disbelief before straightening, red-faced with laughter and embarrassment, to face him again.

"The mouth on you, kid," she says in wonder, though it's a dismissal if Dean's ever heard one. "Seriously, where do you learn this stuff?"

"I get around," he shrugs. "But seriously – think about it. Sure you'd have a thing or two to teach me, but I'd more than make up for it in stamina. We're talking _all night_ here, sweetheart."

She's still laughing when she leaves his ward to move on to the next sick kid's room.

"Happy to amuse you," he mutters to himself, pouting and sulking because he can, because there's no one around to witness it.

Fact is, he's pretty sure his stamina right now (sexual or otherwise) has gone down the crapper along with his sex drive, and that's really saying something, considering he's fifteen years old and obsessed with sex. He still thinks about it, a lot – there's not much else to do during the hours of mind-numbing boredom while sitting in a hospital bed – but his body isn't so quick to respond anymore, and the fantasies don't hold his attention for as long, nor are they as satisfying as they used to be.

Instead, he finds himself thinking about those big, round eyes and how they go warm when Lois smiles. He remembers the warmth of her hand against his skin as she wipes a cool cloth across his forehead, or rubs his back and hums to him when he's bent over puking into a basin in his lap. He remembers the smell of her shampoo when she leans close, that fresh powder scent of her deodorant, the clean girl smell that makes him want to snuffle into her neck and just breathe deep.

It's probably the cancer making him all clingy and moony, Dean figures. Christ knows he's not one to get emotionally attached to the not-so-strangers that sometimes have an impact on their nomadic lives. He's just lonely and scared, and Lois – Lois is a friend who just happens to smell Really. Fucking. Good. The deep, penetrating eyes, full mouth, slim waist, wide hips, and _awesome _rack don't hurt, either.

Dad and Sam show up just before supper time. It's a relief having them near, like suddenly Dean can breathe easier or something. Sam crawls up onto the bed with him, not close enough to snuggle but wedged in at his side so that they're squashed onto the single bed like two sardines; and Dad takes the green lounger chair near the bed and reclines with a newspaper while the boys chat. He grins at Sam's mile-a-minute chatter, catching Dean's eye with a wink, and Dean eases back into the pillows behind him and feels his stress melting away.

"And then yesterday was the competition and I won!" Sam says proudly. "So Mr. Jenkins said I could join the Mathletes this year, even though I'm only in grade 6, because I have the highest score in the _whole grade_."

"Dude, that's awesome!" Dean says proudly. His little genius geek brother never ceases to amaze him, never fails to raise that burning feeling of pride welling up in his chest. "Pretty soon we're gonna need to get you a neck brace just so we can hold your head up with that ginormous brain."

Sam looks up at him then, eyes narrowed, like he can't tell if he should be angry at the insult or pleased with the compliment. Then he gazes at his knees and his cheeks dimple and he grins in spite of himself.

"Make sure you hold my hand then," he says with a tentative bordering on wicked grin, "so I can anchor you and your airhead to the earth. Otherwise you'd probably float away."

Sly hazel eyes cut up to Dean, waiting for a retort or rejoinder.

"Especially without the hair to weigh him down," Dad agrees gruffly.

Dean's not sure who's more stunned by Dad's sudden involvement in the teasing, Sam or Dean. Both boys share a moment's stunned silence, staring at their Dad as he continues to read his newspaper, eyes never leaving the pages in spite of the deep ridges forming in his cheeks as he fights to hold back a smile. Everything's so light it's almost tense (if that makes any sense), and Dean can't help the feeling that curls down his spine, like the whole of Mexico just threw a fiesta on his grave or something.

Then Dad and Sam burst into snorted snickers and the whole family breaks down into giddy, hysterical laughter borne of too much stress and not enough sleep and a whole lotta love that most days none of them knows quite what to do with. And see, this is what Dean knows: his family is meant to be together. All the monsters and all the diseases and all the heartache in the world are nothing in the face of his family. They're strong together, no matter how much they may fight, or how much their lives sometimes suck beyond the telling.

He shouldn't be (it's probably a sign that he's finally lost his mind), but right now, Dean's happy.

888

It's funny how life can yo-yo in spectacular arcs, up and down, back and forth, side-to-side, zig and zag. One minute you're facing one direction, and the next you've done a 180, been turned around or upside down. Sometimes there's no warning. Sometimes the bottom just drops out.

The third round of chemo hits Dean hard. His weight drops so drastically from the constant vomiting that the doctors insist on putting in a feeding tube, which brings Dean just one step closer to looking like a member of the Borg. He feels used up and dried out, limbs too heavy to lift, listless and tired all the time. He can barely get out of bed, which would be a problem if he were at home, but since he's stuck in the Peds ward (where he's been for the past six days) he's got nurses like Lois and her posse to wait on him hand and foot.

You'd think that'd be a consolation, but it's not.

He misses his family. It's funny, because Sam's always been so independent, always wanting to branch off on his own, always craving time by himself to discover himself or whatever, begging to go to summer camp and whining about his privacy all the damned time. But for all that he's dependable and self-sufficient, Dean's always been more like an old hound dog on the porch step, content to stay at home and reassured in the presence of his pack. So being sick and being away from Dad and Sam… It's hard for Dean. It makes me feel removed from his family, displaced, like they'll go on with their lives without him and won't need him anymore. And being away from them leaves him vulnerable in ways simply he isn't when they're around. It's like he can't keep up the brave front because they're not there for him to be brave for, so he's scared now like he's never been before. Scared and painfully lonely when they're not with him to keep his spirits up. And right now, he needs his spirits up.

Dean feels like he's dying. Feels like the chemo, or the cancer, or the tag team wonder of the chemo _and_ the cancer, is killing him. For real. Like a trembling lightness has settled into his bones and he's floating away, like his soul is ready to fly right out of his body. And it feels funny when he breathes, like maybe he's not really breathing, but just pretending to breathe, or like his lungs are actually balloons, only they're made of lead and have a big hole in them that all the oxygen's leaking out of. He tries saying as much to Lois when she makes her rounds and writes the latest read-outs on her clipboard, but the words don't make any sense when they come out of his mouth. 'Balloons,' he hears himself say, 'there's a hole!' and she just smiles sadly and pets his head and tells him it's okay.

'_It's not,'_ he thinks desperately. '_It's not okay… I think I'm dyin'.'_

Except he must have said that part aloud, because Lois comes closer and starts fussing, her pretty mouth flattened into a tight line with worry. She checks his temperature and swears, and then things start happening real fast. There's a flurry of activity, doctors and nurses huddled around him, drawing blood and then injecting drugs into his PICC line and setting an oxygen mask to his face. The nurses take off his Johnny-shirt and sponge him down with cold cloths, and it's so shockingly cold that Dean moans in protest, his teeth fucking chattering because he's freezing. And naked and humiliated, with all eyes (including Lois's) on him with keen yet clinical doctorly disinterest.

Dean wants his Dad to come in here, right now, and make all this shit stop, so badly he has to fight the urge to burst into tears. Something's _wrong_. Dr. Hawkins is snapping orders in rapid fire at the assembled medical staff, and Dean's shivering cold even though he keeps hearing the word 'fever' being thrown around over his head. He's barely conscious by the time they take him for chest X-rays, and the oxygen mask doesn't feel like it's helping much at all.

Panic hits him hard as he thinks _'this is it.'_ He's going right now – _dying_ right now – and he's not… Dad and Sam aren't here, and he's not fucking ready. He's scared, so scared he can't feel his hands, and he wants his Dad. _He wants his Dad!_

"Shhhh, honey, you're okay," Lois whispers, face suddenly close as she grips his hand tightly and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "We need you to calm down, Dean. You're okay, but you need to calm down…"

"Has somebody called his father?" a voice demands over the chaos of activity, while another voice replies, "He's on his way."

'_I'm going,'_ he thinks hysterically. _'It's happening now. I'm going!'_ But going where? What will happen when he dies? Will he become a ghost? Will Dad have to salt and burn his bones to keep him from haunting them? Or will he go somewhere else, like maybe Heaven? Is there a Heaven? Will he see Mom again? Or will he go to Hell? He's done a lot of bad things, thought and said a lot of bad things. Or what if there's just nothing? What if he dies and just stops being anything, is just a rotting body in the ground, never to think another thought or dream another dream?

"It's okay, Dean," Lois soothes, wiping the tears from his cheeks and brushing a thumb reassuringly across his forehead, where his hair used to be. "Your Dad'll be here soon."

Except Dean can't breathe, and he thinks maybe Dad won't be here soon enough.

888

This cancer's killing them all. Little by little, day by day, it's sucking the life out of them, leeching the light from their eyes and leaving nothing but exhausted, empty shells in their place. John feels like he hasn't slept in years, and the constant worry and terror are working wonders on his stomach, turning his intestines into minefields and burning ulcers along the lining of his stomach. There's a general ache that took up residence behind his eyes some time in late June and it hasn't left in the past three months. Sam's a nervous wreck, to the point that they've got the school guidance counselor breathing down his neck, badgering him about needing support during 'this trying time.' Every night the kid prays like one possessed by the Holy Spirit, losing himself in these desperate little trances that make John feel so helpless he wants to fucking scream.

They're shadows of what they were four months ago.

And Dean. It's like there's half a kid where a whole kid used to be. He's… he's not well. The chemo's sucked all the fat from his body, so now he looks all long and spindly, emaciated, bald, and deathly pale, his handsome face a stark white mask against his dark, hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. The bruises around the PICC line and feeding tube are grossly green-yellow, sick and irritated-looking flesh that almost hangs loose off of his bones. And if the drastic change in his appearance weren't shocking enough for you, the ventilator is one helluva cherry on top.

Pneumonia, Dr. Hawkins explained. Again. Dean's lungs weren't expanding due to the fluid build-up from the infection, and he couldn't breathe on his own, so they'd had to intubate him and put him on a vent. John had arrived at the hospital just in time to see Dean's wide green eyes rolling in wild orbits in their sockets, his lips almost purple-blue from lack of oxygen as they soundlessly rounded around the word 'Dad' over and over again, before the Emergency team blocked him from view to shove a tube down his throat. There was barely even time for John to give consent to use the ventilator – he doesn't even remember signing the damned form – before Dean's voice, the one thing the poor kid had left to exert any kind of control of himself or his situation, was officially taken away from him and replaced by the steady whoosh-hiss of the machine.

It was a bad day. The worst they've had since Mary died, in fact. John can't remember a time when he's felt more helpless, more desperate, more terrified, and that includes the night he found his wife pinned to the ceiling in Sam's nursery, gutted and bleeding before she burst into fucking flames. Until now, that had been the very worst moment in John Winchester's entire life. But nothing – _nothing_ – compares to watching your child, your _baby_, slip away in lingering illness.

His boy'd been crying, wet tracks staining his pale, freckled cheeks as his eyes jack-rabbitted around the room, his hands weakly reaching in spite of the nurses' best efforts to hold him down, while sedatives were administered to calm him down for the procedure. John knew Dean wanted him near, knew Dean was terrified and missing his Dad, knew Dean fucking needed him then and there, but the doctors had to do their thing first, get him breathing, and John could only watch helplessly while they forced a tube down Dean's throat.

That was two days ago and Dean's still on the vent. He's been in the hospital for 9 consecutive days, and John's certain that, by the time this is all over, he's going to have to declare bankruptcy, because there's no good goddamned way he can afford this anymore. But that's nothing, nothing, in the grand scheme of things. It's just money, just debt, and he'll gladly go in the hole and ruin his credit if it means keeping his boy alive (not like he was planning on taking out a mortgage or anything, anyway). Hell, if it comes down to it, he'll sell his fucking soul for Dean. A little debt is _nothing_.

Pastor Jim's down from Minnesota looking after Sam. John thought about calling Bobby, but Bobby's not speaking to him at the moment, and he figures Jim's the better one to keep an eye on Sam, considering Sam's sudden preference for tantric prayer sessions. Maybe Jim can help calm the kid down or something, make the religious fervor less manic, less desperate. Maybe he can give the boy some comfort, 'cos John knows there's little comfort left to give from his own quarter, especially where God is concerned.

Sam's prayers have become more frantic since they put his big brother on the vent and moved him into the ICU. They won't let him in to see Dean because he's too much of a risk for germs and infection, so it's all on John to keep Dean company during the long, lonely hours. It's a test of fatherhood, forcing him to carry on one-sided conversations for hours at a time while Dean just blinks up at him with those huge eyes that show every little thing he's feeling. John sees fear and pain and comfort and love reflected at him in those deep greens, 'cos without his voice, Dean's eyes are now an open window to his soul. He ain't holding nothin' back from his old man, and the rawness of that boy's love and loyalty, the open blindness of his fear when it hits, are enough to cut John's legs off at the knees. He loves that kid so fiercely he wants to fucking punch something. He wants to punish someone for letting this happen to his boy.

The doctors have promised that Dean's reacting well to the antibiotics, that the infection's clearing up in good time, and that they'll have Dean off the vent in a day or so. They insist that, while the red blood cells are now dangerously low, it's still no reason to panic – yet. Plasma transfusions are on the menu, and they're going to hold off on round four of chemo until Dean's blood cell counts are back up to a healthier level.

'He's strong,' they placate and patronize. 'He's responding well to the treatment. His chance of recovery is still very good.'

John hopes they're not just blowing smoke up his ass, 'cos he'll come in here and kill every last one of them if his son dies.

888

It's hard to be crafty or sneaky when the person you're trying to be crafty or sneaky with is a hunter. It's a lesson Sam learned long ago, having John Winchester, Best Bullshitter on the Planet and Sneak Extraordinaire, for a father. But now that Pastor Jim's here, Sam can't allow himself to miss out on this golden opportunity. He's just got to be sly about it.

They're sitting together at the kitchen table, Sam with his Math homework spread out in front of him, and Pastor Jim with his Bible and a leather-bound journal he uses to write sermons in. The kindly old hunter's been using his time away from the parish to look for new material for his preaching, poring over the Good Book and picking out passages, taking careful notes and composing what are, no doubt, inspirational speeches about the path of the Lord.

It provides a helluva great segue into a conversation Sam's been avoiding for months for fear of discovery.

"Pastor Jim," he says, trying for his most inquisitive yet emotionally un-invested tone of voice. "Do you believe in angels?"

The pastor pauses in his reading to peer up from his book at Sam with a curious, serene smile.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Jim replies. "In fact, the more time I spend learning about the monsters that plague the dark, the more I'm convinced in the existence of Light."

That sounds pretty backward, actually. Sam frowns in confusion, which leads Jim to chuckle with good humour.

"In life there is always balance, Sam," the man says kindly. "There cannot be dark without light. And as you've seen, the arsenal of light, things like crosses, rosaries and Holy water, which we've used on hunts, have power in fighting those dark and evil things. There can be no power, the words in this Book," and here he taps proudly on the cover of his Bible, "can have no power if there is no _source_ to that power."

Huh. That does make sense, actually. It makes perfect sense. Sam feels warm relief temporarily lifting the heavy weight from his shoulders, the burden of guilt and responsibility for what's happening to Dean, when he thinks about there being a God out there somewhere to balance the scales, with angels doing His work. So it can't—it can't be that an angel would give Dean cancer. Dean's a _hunter_ (or at least a hunter in training): he's doing God's work.

So that has to mean that Sam really was just dreaming. Crazy, scary lucid dreaming.

"And just as there are demons to carry out the Devil's work in corrupting souls," Jim goes on, "I believe that there are angels among us who are here to steer us on the right path, or to guide us through when God's light seems dimmest."

"Can you summon an angel?" Now that would be convenient. And why not? You can summon demons, after all.

"No, my boy," Jim shakes his head sadly. "Angels haven't actually been seen among men for at least two thousand years. They're far, far more powerful than demons, and they can't be controlled with an incantation and some spellwork the way that demons can."

"Then why don't they help?" Sam asks, puzzled and a little pissed off. "Why do they let evil things loose, like demons, if they're powerful enough to stop them? Why do they sit back and let us get corrupted?"

Sam knows Dean would have some choice words (snorted in disbelieving laughter) to say to this whole line of discussion.

"Because God gave us free will, Sam," Jim says, eyes bright and intent. "He gave us the tools: strong hearts and minds and wills, to fight the evil ourselves. We can be saved or damned all on our own, but if angels intervened we'd have the choice to succeed or fail taken away from us. Then there'd be no free will."

Sam thinks, right at this moment, that he'd give up his free will if it meant the angels would take away Dean's cancer. In fact, the certainty of being saved, of being guaranteed a place in Heaven when he dies, seems like a pretty fair trade for free will. Granted, Sam's not really sure he gets what free will actually means. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't seem all that important to the distraught 11 year-old whose brother's sick, on a ventilator, and _dying_.

"Do you know a lot about angels?" Sam asks. "Do they like us?"

Jim chuckles again and ruffles Sam's hair as he stands to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Some of them," he admits with a shrug. "At least, according to the Bible. It's said that there was a war in Heaven, and a whole host of angels rebelled against God because they didn't like that God had created us humans. When they lost the war, they were cast down into Hell, and those that remained in Heaven, on the other hand, were loyal to God and were more sympathetic to the plight of the crafty ape."

Well that's a relief. If it wasn't a dream, if it somehow really was an angel, or a messenger for an angel, that came to speak with him, then it has to be one of the ones that likes humans. And an angel that likes humans wouldn't give Dean cancer for no reason. So that would mean it isn't Sam's fault that Dean has cancer. It would mean he got cancer just… well, just because. And it's not Sam's fault, and Dean and Dad won't hate him.

Still, for the sake of curiosity…

"What about the Morning Star?"

Jim frowns as he pulls the coffee pot from the machine and pours the steaming brew into his mug.

"Definitely not our number one fan, actually," he says ruefully. "Perhaps it serves as a lesson about the evils of vanity," and here he chuckles quietly to himself, "but it's said that the Morning Star, or 'light bearer' was the most beautiful of all the Heavenly Host."

The skin along Sam's arms tingles, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. 'Light bearer.' He's heard that name before.

"No, Lucifer is definitely not a fan of humans, Sam. So if you were thinking about trying to summon an angel – no that it would work, mind you – but if you were, I definitely wouldn't think about summoning him."

Sam doesn't make it to the bathroom before he throws up.

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: And we've made it to the end, folks! Thanks so much for sticking with me! I pretty much wrote this chapter in one sitting, so I apologize if it feels rushed or if there are blatant errors. All mistakes are obviously mine.

If you've got a spare moment, do please leave me a note to say how you liked it!

* * *

Chapter 5

When the yellow eyed messenger shows up that night at Sam's bedside, Sam knows he's dreaming. He'd been sending out furious messages to the universe, to the messenger, to _Lucifer_, since his conversation with Pastor Jim ended, so it's no surprise to him that the messenger has finally shown up. Now that Sam knows the truth, it seems the giant jerkface can spare a minute to talk to him after all.

"I didn't make a deal," Sam announces without preamble, arms folded stubbornly across his chest. "My Dad's a hunter – I know how these things work. You have to make a deal, have to agree to all the terms of the deal, and _I didn't_, so we didn't make one. Lucifer can't have my soul. We didn't _agree_."

Those sickly yellow eyes swirl with malice, and the messenger grins like a snake.

"Anyone ever tell you you'd make a heckuva great lawyer?" the man beams proudly. "Always getting down to those picky little details. See, that's what I like about you Sammy. You're my favourite, you know. My father's, too."

Sam glares at him, sickened by the compliment, and by the revelation.

"Father?" He bites his lip in thought, his guts churning because he should have known better. _He should have known_. "Lucifer's your father…? So that means you're… you're a…?"

"Demon," Yellow Eyes asserts with a nod. "Though I suppose Father's a bit too literal a term, really. I like to think of him as my very own Dean Winchester. Technically a brother, but more like a father figure. Steering me on the right path. That's what big brothers do, right Champ?"

Sam really hadn't been expecting that.

"So you were an angel?" he blurts out incredulously.

The demon winks and grins that snaky grin again.

"Back in the day," he admits thoughtfully. "But I guess things change when you start making so many friends in low places. Though compared to being a stooge up in Heaven, I gotta tell ya Sammy, what I got for my troubles Downstairs was like a big _promotion_."

It's like a viper strike, the way he snaps his words out, pump and pizzazz and flare embellishing his words like a used car salesman on speed. It makes Sam's skin crawl, makes him want to punch the smug look off the stupid monster's stupid face.

"Well I don't care what you are," Sam defies stubbornly. "I didn't make a deal so you can't have my soul."

"Right again, Sammy-o," he winks. "I knew I couldn't pull a fast one on you, so I didn't even bother trying. That thing with Dean? That was a gift."

Months of suppressed panic return on Sam all at once, making his hands run hot and cold in flashes, making him lightheaded and nauseous. He sits back heavily on his bed, a light tremble shaking its way through his entire frame, and he has to fight back the urge to cry.

Hearing the demon say those words – confirmation of Sam's guilt – is enough to gut the child.

"I didn't ask for it," he manages through gritted teeth. "I would never want that to happen to my brother."

"Means to an end," the demon shrugs. "You wanted your Daddy to stay here so you could all play normal, so Lucifer gave him a reason to stay. Call it a freebie."

"But I don't want it!" If a few rogue tears slide down Sam's cheeks, he's sure no one will blame him for it. "Take it back and undo it – I never wanted this! I just wanted us all to stay in one place and be a normal family."

Those yellow eyes glow in the lamplight, eager and wide.

"Normal families go through illness every day," he says somberly. "They fight, they cry, they gnash their teeth and demand to know _why_ and curse God for giving them such a raw deal. It's all perfectly normal."

Sam shakes his head no but the demon goes on.

"They suffer together, as a family. They eat crappy hospital food and get ulcers together. They go bankrupt from hospital bills and live in slums just to get by together. They sit by, helpless, and watched their loved ones die together. And it's all. Perfectly. _Normal_. The circle of life, Sammy!"

"It's horrible," Sam laments as tears run in rivers down his cheeks. "And anyway, God didn't do this – _you_ did. You and Lucifer. You did this and I want you to undo it!"

"But just think," the demon offers, smarmy like a food stand vendor at a carnival with a candy apple. "When your brother dies, your family will be tied to this place forever. You and your Daddy can go to his grave to lay down flowers every year, and knowing your Daddy, he won't be able to leave his good soldier behind. That tombstone will be like an anchor around the old man's neck, tying him here until the end of his days."

Sam can't hold back the sob that claws up his throat, can't keep his shoulders from shaking as he weeps in the face of such a horrible image. Dean can't die. He can't. Even though he complains about him a lot, Sam loves his big brother. Dean's always there when he needs him, always looks out for Sam, and he makes the dark days seem lighter with his endless stream of bad jokes and infectious laughter. There isn't supposed to be a world without Dean in it. But right now Dean is so sick and weak that Sam can't even be around him because his germs could kill him. He's so sick he can't breathe on his own, has a machine doing it for him. And it's all Sam's fault. _It's all his fault._

"Dean can't die!" Sam moans, tears and snot dripping over his lips. "Please, please, please don't kill my brother. Please!"

"Wish I could help you out, there, Sport," the demon fake laments and turns away as if to leave. "But hey, I promise to put in a good word for him with my brothers and sisters Upstairs when the time comes. How does November 2nd, sound? I know you humans like anniversaries. We could make this one a double-whammy, huh? Mommy _and_ Dean."

"NO!" Sam pleads. He feels broken inside like someone smashed his soul apart with a hammer. And he's never felt so lost, alone, or terrified in his life. November 2nd is just over a month away.

"Please! I'll do anything!"

That gets the demon's attention. He turns slowly, eyes glinting victoriously, smile tight and predatory.

"_Now_, I think, we might be ready to make a deal."

888

They're letting him see Dean today, and for the first time in months Sam feels like maybe things are going to be okay. They've taken Dean off the ventilator and he's no longer in isolation because his white and red blood cell counts are looking much better, so Sam can finally see his brother again for the first time in over two weeks.

Sam walks down the familiar corridor of the Peds ward and tries not to let his jitters show, not wanting to draw unwanted attention from his Dad when right now all he wants to focus on is _Dean_. Dean, whose life is literally in Sam's hands, whose entire existence depends on Sam's answer. A simple yes or an equally simple no.

'_It won't cost you your soul,'_ the demon had promised, offering up reassurance. _'In fact, Lucifer doesn't need you to give him anything, or do anything for him. All you have to do, when the time comes, is say yes.'_

Yes to what, the demon wouldn't say. But Sam figures, considering it's the Devil and all, it can't be yes to anything good.

'_No need to make a hasty decision,'_ the demon had placated. _'Why don't you go visit your brother first? Take a good, long look at him and decide how much he's really worth to you. Could be that maybe your life would be a whole lot easier without him – without him bossing you around all the time, or making fun of you, or shoving your face in his armpit until you cry uncle.'_

It was like the thing was reading his mind, because really, Sam would likely never miss that about his brother.

'_Watch him in that sickbed and ask yourself, "Can I say goodbye to him in a few weeks and never see him again? Do I really need him in my life?" If the answer's yes to my last question, then we all walk away from this happy.'_

When they get to the door to Dean's room, Dad pulls Sam aside and gives his shoulder a firm squeeze. His eyes are tired and dark, but there's a spark of hope in them that makes Sam want to believe in the power of his old man. It also makes the weight of his decision press all the more heavily upon him.

"He's awake," Dad says bracingly, "but he's real tired, Sam. You gotta brace yourself a bit before you go in there, okay? Don't let it show on your face if you're scared, 'cos he'll see it and he's uh… he needs to believe he's gonna be okay. We gotta make him believe that."

Sam nods, gulping in preparation for the big, scary reveal, and takes a tentative step into the room. It's semi-private this time, no sharing with a half-dozen other kids, to keep germs from spreading. Dean's bed's on the left side, separated from some other cancer patient by a curtain pulled all the way around his bed. Sam hears the machines beeping to the steady rhythm of his big brother's heartbeat before he actually sees him. And when he does, he has to choke back a gasp.

Dean's curled up on his side in the bed, arms and legs tucked in close to conserve body heat, and he looks _tiny_. He's just this little huddled form in a bundle of blankets, with long skeletal wrists peeking out beneath them lying listlessly on the thin mattress, as though Dean simply doesn't have the energy to lift them. And he's bald and white like a ghost, no beanie hat to hide the damage the chemo's done to his hair. From across the room, his large eyes look like two saucers sunk into the milk white canvas of his face.

"Hey," Dad greets in a warm whisper. "Look who I brought."

Dad urges Sam forward, and Sam watches as Dean's eyes travel slowly, so, so slowly, upward to take in the sight of his baby brother coming towards him. They don't light up like they're supposed to, and Dean doesn't smile, but they soften at the edges, and there's relief there. Sam wants to ask what's wrong, why Dean isn't happy to see him, but one look at his brother's wasted body and tired eyes and he just knows: Dean doesn't have the strength to do more than just look. But there's a tiny spark in there, Dean's big green eyes blinking up at him tiredly, and then Dean sighs, looking peaceful and serene.

And in Sam's mind, he can see his brother slipping into a contented sleep and never waking up again.

The tears come unbidden. Sam means to be brave, he does, but seeing Dean looking so frail, the life literally leeched off his bones and leaving a brittle, wasted version of his larger-than-life big brother in his place, makes everything about this horrible situation too real and too final. If what the demon says is true, then Dean has just under three weeks left before he… Less than three weeks left before November 2nd. And Sam doesn't know what to do.

His heart says '_say yes_.' Nothing can be worse than losing Dean. And Dean doesn't deserve what's happening to him anyway: this is Sam's fault and Sam has to be the one to fix it. Say yes. One simple word: yes. Then Dean'll get better and they can put this whole nightmare behind them.

But his brain kicks in and says, '_hold up. You want to make a promise to the __**Devil**__ to say yes when you don't even know what you're saying yes to? Could you do anything more stupid?_' What if, in saying yes, Sam is committing to something really evil? What if the Devil wants to use him to hurt a lot of people, or steal souls or something equally horrifying and sinister? He is the Devil, after all. His intentions can't be good. And will Dean ever forgive him for recklessly saying yes when innocent people could be at stake? Will he ever be able to look his father and brother in the eye, knowing that he's made a deal with the Devil himself, knowing that he's promised to say yes to something that's probably unfathomably evil?

Can one person's life be worth whatever hell the Devil could unleash if Sam says yes?

Facing his brother now, Sam honestly doesn't know what he should do. His heart's screaming at him to just do it – _say yes and save your brother!_ – but his head says that he could be doing something really terrible. And Dean wouldn't want him to be dealing with demons or devils, not even if it meant saving his own life. Sam knows his brother enough to know that Dean would kick his ass if he knew Sam was even considering this.

"Hey," Dean croaks in a voice rough like broken glass. His spindly hand reaches up to wipe a stray tear from Sam's cheek, and Sam sniffs loudly to try to calm himself down.

"It's okay, 'lil brother," Dean says, voice whisper-soft as his hand trembles and drops back to the mattress, spent. "I know it looks bad, but 'm not goin' anywhere. C'mere." And then he flips the blankets open with a tired flick of his wrist, inviting Sam to crawl inside.

The doctors told him not to, that he isn't allowed, but Sam obeys his brother and climbs up onto the bed with him, needing the familiar warmth, needing to be held close. He snuggles in under the covers and presses in close as long, skeletal arms close around him. He feels Dean's cheek press against the back of his head and takes comfort in the familiar weight there, trying not to notice the bones of his too-skinny brother poking into him from behind. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend that he's 4 again and he and Dean are sharing a bed in the latest no-tell Motel while Dad does research at the nearby table. He can pretend that he'll have this forever.

Dad watches the whole scene in silence, his eyes dark and unreadable. Sam thinks maybe the man is angry with him, pissed that Sam went ahead and lost it instead of keeping it cool like he'd been told. Or maybe he's sad. Dad's sad a lot these days, grieving and frustrated at his inability to fix this. Sam wonders what his father would think if he knew that Sam was the reason all this was happening, and that Sam had the ability to make it all better. He's pretty sure his dad would hate him if he knew the truth.

Both boys fall asleep curled up in each other's arms, content in the familiar. And Sam dreams that Dean died while he slept, dreams of waking up to the empty shell of his brother behind him, cold arms clinging tightly even in death. He sees his whole life spread out before him: going to the funeral with Dad, crying over a fresh grave while Dad grips his hand so tight he feels the bones snap; sitting at the kitchen table eating supper, Dad sipping at a tumbler full of Jack Daniels, while the empty seat where Dean should be sitting is a silent reminder of what they've lost; growing up, growing tall, growing strong, throwing himself into school work because, even though he teased him mercilessly, Dean was always proud of how smart his little brother was, and Sam wants to do his big brother proud; he sees himself graduate from high school, sees himself smiling and accepting that diploma, while Dad looks on from his seat in the audience, proud but sad that someone else isn't there to witness this moment; Sam sees a montage of visits to the gravestone, sees himself laying wreaths and bouquets, sometimes letters, on his brother's grave, while grass springs up thick and green from the mound, and birds chirp and the sun shines. He sees himself growing up and growing old, living a life with a beautiful woman by his side, and children at his feet. He sees his hair lighten and lines form around his face as age withers him until one day he's bathed in light and he's reached his journey's end. And Dean is there, fifteen years old and grinning from ear to ear, eyes bright and sparkling with mischief, and he says, "Took you long enough, little brother." Reaches out with his hand and Sam takes it, walks into the light, and feels peace.

Dean's so exhausted he doesn't wake when Sam jackknifes into a sitting position, heart hammering against his chest as the after-images of the dream continue to flash behind his eyelids. Sam's so panicked by the dream he can scarce draw breath, has to lay his fingers to his brother's throat to feel the steady thrumming of his pulse to believe that Dean's still here. And then Sam notices the steady beep-beeping of the machine, and relief washes over him like a cool wave. Dad's slumped back in his seat, jaw slack and drooling. They're still okay. It hasn't happened yet. Dean's still here and they're still together.

And Sam still doesn't know what to do.

888

For the first time in almost two weeks, Dad joins Sam and Pastor Jim at home for supper. Dean had finally put his foot down and ordered their father to go home and get a damned shower, and for once the ornery drill sergeant had deferred to his son, bowing out with promises to be back in the morning. Jim's pretty good in the kitchen and has prepared some kind of chicken goulash with rice, which both Sam and John devour as if they haven't eaten in years. It's easy and familiar, in spite of the underlying tension behind everything they do these days. Still, Dean's chair is empty, and Sam can't help but think about the dream.

"What will you do if Dean dies?" he asks. Sam's really not sure where the question came from, but there's no taking it back once it's left his lips.

Dad pauses, fork midway to his mouth, and stares. He looks at Sam as though Sam is some kind of changeling or alien body-snatcher, like he doesn't even know his own kid. His mouth open, gaping.

"In times like this, it's important to have faith," Jim offers unhelpfully as his eyes dart between father and son.

But see? Sam's had faith, has done more praying than probably any other kid on the planet, and it didn't help. Besides, he's not sure God gives a crap when you bring this kind of thing on yourself by sending wishes to the Devil. Sam figures he's on his own on this one.

"Why would you ask me that?" Dad demands, dropping his fork on the table with a clang. "Why the hell would you ask me that?"

"John…" Jim tries.

"What'll you do if Dean dies?" Sam asks again instead of backing down. He really wants to know. "I wanna know what'll happen to us if—"

"Dean's not dying!" Dad barks, like this is the end of this discussion, like saying it makes it so. "Your brother is going to get better, and we're going to put all of this behind us."

"But what if he doesn't?" Sam presses. "What if he doesn't, Dad? Because Dean's way sicker than we thought he'd be, and he's not doing so good, and it _could_ happen."

"Oh, Sam," Jim says sadly. "Your brother's fighting very hard, but—"

"I won't let it happen!" Dad yells as his face grows steadily redder. "I'll be cold and dead in the ground before I'll ever let you or your brother die before me! Is that understood?"

Sam feels his blood go hot and cold, looks to Jim for an explanation, but the kindly pastor is looking at Dad like Dad's the alien-changeling now. His eyes are wide, his expression shocked and disgusted, his mouth tight with disapproval. Whatever Dad meant by that, it's obviously bad for Jim to look so thrown by it.

"I think we're all very close to saying things that we'll regret later," Jim says delicately. "Sam, why don't you go upstairs and finish your homework while I talk with your father?"

"Don't coddle him, Jim. You're not helping." Dad's voice is a growl, his eyes hot and angry. Then he turns those dark eyes on Sam and the determination there freezes Sam's blood. "If you wanna just throw in the towel and write your brother off, that's your prerogative. Just make your damned mind up now because I'm not lettin' you near him if you've already decided that he's not gonna make it."

"That's not what I meant!" Sam pleads, panicked and desperate in light of his father's threat. "I don't _want_ him to die!"

"Well it sounds like you've already made your peace with this," Dad accuses. "Sounds like you've pretty much decided that your brother's a lost cause."

"No, no!" Sam insists as tears flood his eyes and blur his vision. "I just wanted to know what we would do if he did… What—what happens if he _dies_, Dad?"

He just wants to know. He wants his Dad to tell him that they'll be okay, that they'll get by somehow, that life will go on eventually if there's no Dean in it. He wants to know that it's okay for him to say no, that he won't have to make a deal with the Devil. He wants to know what he's supposed to _do_.

"I won't let it happen," Dad says solemnly. "I won't _let it_. I'll sell my soul if I—"

"That's enough!" Jim snaps. "John, that's enough! Stop talking nonsense and terrifying your _eleven year-old son_." Then, turning to Sam. "Sam, I must insist now. Please go to your room so that I can talk to your father."

Sam can't even manage a nod before he's scrambling down the hall and burying himself beneath the blankets. He's too terrified to cry.

888

"So how'd that visit with your brother go?"

The demon's there before Sam realizes his head's hit the pillow. He blinks up at him, blood cold and stomach hollow, and wishes that he could trade places and be anybody else, anybody who isn't Sam Winchester, right now.

"I gotta say, he's not looking too good," the demon taunts with false regret. "The 80 year-old man look just doesn't really suit him."

It's decision time and Sam knows it. The demon's come to hear Sam's answer, and Sam still doesn't know what he should do. He wishes he could talk to Dean – Dean would know what to do.

"What happens if I say no?" he asks instead. Might as well try to make an informed decision.

"Well," the demon drawls, sitting down on Dean's empty bed and clapping his hands over his knees. "It's not gonna be pretty for your brother, I can tell you that. Since he's on a break from the chemo for the next while to get his immune system back up to speed, those cancer cells are gonna multiply like horny bunnies. And the next time he goes in for a lumbar puncture, they're gonna find it all cloudy with disease – through his spine and swimming around his brain. He's gonna be so full of cancer it'll be coming out his eyeballs."

The demon reveals that last bit with relish, eyes bright and gleeful.

"Not literally, of course," he amends. "But you get the idea."

Yes. Sam gets the idea.

"Then he won't have enough healthy blood cells to fight anything off, and he'll get a cold and he'll waste away a little bit more every day until his heart can't take the stress anymore and he just…" the demon makes a double-handed wing-flapping gesture, "…slips away. Real peaceful-like."

Sam wants to ask how the demon can know that, but feels pretty sure he knows the answer. The demon, or Lucifer, is making this happen. And if Sam doesn't say yes, it'll happen on November 2nd. Three weeks from now.

"Will he go to Heaven?" If Mom is there, then it won't be so bad for Dean, Sam thinks. He could… he could be at peace, be happy even. Sam doesn't want to think about it, but maybe—.

"Can't make any guarantees," the demon evades. "My guess, though? Probably. He's young, after all, and hasn't had much of a chance to dirty up that soul, yet. Heck, he's still virginally pure, and we know those angels like 'em pure. So sure. Why not? Your Daddy, though?" and here the demon raises his eyebrows as if to say, '_Hoo-boy!_' "Him, I'm thinking, not so much."

That's another one Sam doesn't quite get. Sure, John Winchester can be a major jerk sometimes (tonight, for example) and sure he's not the greatest father in the world. But he saves innocent people. Surely that's got to count for something. And anyway, why would the demon be talking about Dad dying anyway? It's Dean who's got a clock counting down the days left.

"Come on now, Sammy," the demon prods. "Use that big, squishy frontal lobe of yours. You heard what your Daddy said earlier – about selling his soul. You think he's gonna just sit back and watch his perfect soldier die? Think he'll accept it and move on like you're preparing to?"

Sam feels equal parts guilty and terrified: guilty because he has been contemplating just that – accepting Dean's death and moving on; and terrified because his father had said it, had said that he'd sell his soul, and Sam had seen the manic, desperate, determined gleam in his father's eyes. Dad will do it.

And Dad doing that, selling his soul, is far more terrifying than the thought of losing Dean. It's… it's evil, wrong, unnatural, and moreover, it's Sam's fault. His Dad would sell his soul to keep Dean from dying, and it'll be all because of Sam. It'll be Sam's fault.

"But hey, don't take my word for it," the demon placates. "The Big Guy wants to talk to you in person anyway, give you the official sales pitch. Straight from the horse's mouth. Whaddya say?"

Sam would like to say a lot of things. He'd like to say that Lucifer can go screw himself. He'd like to make threats about cutting the Devil's heart out and feeding it to him. He'd like to make promises of dire retribution. But, y'know, it's _the Devil_, and Sam's pretty much tongue-tied in absolute terror. Because he doesn't want to talk to the Devil. Not even a little bit.

"Don't be scared," the demon says as it takes his hand and pulls him to standing, leading him towards the ancient dresser so that he can stand before an even more ancient mirror that's warped and distorts his reflection. "The Morning Star really is the most beautiful angel of them all."

That's when Sam's reflection shifts. At first he just sees himself, sees his own wide hazel eyes straining like lamps at full glow, sees his pale face looking tiny and terrified. He sees his shaggy brown mop falling over his eyes, sees the tiny mole next to his nose. But then the image shifts, growing and morphing, until he's looking at someone else, someone older, someone huge and solid and made of porcelain perfection, cut out of stone with the fine angles of his jaw, his brow, his cheekbones. The man looks at Sam benignly, a small smile curving up the corners of his mouth, and his eyes glint with warmth that Sam knows, instinctually, is genuine.

The Devil likes him.

"Hello, Sam," the reflection says. The handsome features are kind and soft, for all that they're carved to a sharp finish. "I've been waiting a long time to meet you."

Sam doesn't know what to make of that, can feel his knees trembling as he stands before Lucifer and watches those sharp, hazel eyes taking him in. The Devil looks almost familiar, though Sam isn't sure he wants to know how that is. He notes the wide nose, the strong, cleft chin, and longish brown hair and feels his mouth go dry. And a mole, matching his perfectly, next to his nose.

"I'm going to give it to you straight," Lucifer says evenly, everything about him speaking of sincerity and earnestness. "I won't lie to you. I will never lie to you. Okay?"

Sam gulps and nods, doesn't trust his own voice to make any kind of reply.

"I admit, we've backed you into a bit of a corner here. I don't like doing it, I'd rather you came to this decision freely, but desperate times…" He pauses and waits to make sure Sam is listening.

"So here's the deal. Some day, many years from now, I'm going to give you a choice. You can say yes, or you can say no. As to what you'll be saying yes to," he tilts his head slightly to the side and eyes Sam with a knowing, penetrating gaze, "well… I think, deep down, you already know."

Since Sam's pretty sure he's looking at his own reflection, himself reflected back as an adult, big, and strong, and with the Devil looking out through his eyes, he's got a fair guess now as to what Lucifer wants him to say yes to.

"I can't take a vessel without his permission," Lucifer admits. "And you're my vessel, Sam. So when the time comes, I'm going to ask you. And you're going to say….?"

Sam gulps again, licks his lips and wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans.

"I don't know," he whispers. "I don't… I don't want Dean to die, but it can't – it can't be right to say yes. I don't want you to be – to be _in_ me."

The Devil smiles warmly and nods in acknowledgment.

"Fair enough," he admits. "Though, you might change your mind some day. But I tell you what – what if I told you that there's a chance I won't ever get out of my cage here? Would that help you make up your mind at all?"

"What do you mean?" He can't dare to hope yet.

"As your Pastor friend must have told you, I'm trapped in here. In Hell." This is the only point at which the Devil's expression darkens, but it's enough to chase away the warm feeling of his smile. "And breaking me out of here's going to take a lot of planning. Certain elements have to be in place, and to be honest, it might never happen in your lifetime. I won't pretend that I don't want it to, but I've got no guarantee that it will."

"So you could be stuck there forever?" Sam hopes. "You might not be able to bust free?"

Lucifer nods.

"And if you don't, and I say yes, Dean will stay healed? You won't get angry and take it back?"

The smile returns and the eyes soften once again.

"Of course," the Devil promises. "You say yes and your part of the bargain is fulfilled. I heal Dean and you guys can go back to your lives. If I don't bust out of my cage, you never have to think of me again. But if I do…" He holds Sam's gaze in his, expression hardening. "If I do get out, I've got a lifetime pass to ride yours truly. And you don't get to take it back. Ever."

Sam Winchester's never considered himself to be much of a gambling man (he's only 11, after all), but he knows a thing or two about odds and about bluffing. He knows that, if he says no, Dean will be dead in three weeks' time. And he knows that, if he says yes, there's a chance that his bill will never come due because Lucifer's plan hinges on the fact that he has to escape Hell first.

In the end, there isn't really a choice at all.

888

A week later they get the results of Dean's latest lumbar puncture: no sign of cancer cells anywhere in his cerebrospinal fluid. It's another four days before the doctors are able to determine that the cancer cells are gone, but they inevitably clap themselves on the back and chalk the entire business up to a sound chemo treatment regime and their own genius. Dad's beside himself with relief, squeezing his boys so tightly they cough and choke for breath, and his big, dark eyes going all dewy with tears of joy is possibly the best thing Sam's ever seen in his life.

He tells himself that, no matter what happens, it was worth it.

Dean doesn't bounce back to miraculous health like Sam had hoped he would, but the news that the cancer's gone brings the light back to his eyes and dimples his cheeks with the brightness of his smile. He finds the strength to start joking again, gets his appetite back and starts eating again (albeit, in very small portions). He lifts himself up in bed and manages to stay awake for a few hours at a time without sinking into exhaustion.

November 2nd comes and goes without incident: Dad doesn't disappear off to a bar to drink himself stupid in memory of Mom's death like he usually does, and Dean doesn't die. It's the best November 2nd Sam's ever had.

When they release Dean from the hospital, he's wobbly and weak like a newborn kitten, trembling under his own weight and barely able to keep himself upright. He's nothing but skin and bones, and he's still pale enough that he could easily pass for a ghost. But he's breathing, and talking, and joking around, and Sam knows that soon enough he'll be big and strong again. In the meantime, Dad takes the weight off his eldest son and allows himself to be Dean's crutch, helping him out of bed or off the couch for bathroom breaks, preparing protein-rich meals to get some meat on his bones, and in general acts the way a father's supposed to.

Days turn into weeks, and before they know it Dean's got a downy soft head of dark blonde new growth, which he relishes in running his fingers through at every opportunity. As the hair grows back, so too does Dean's weight begin to settle back onto his bones. He starts going for walks and takes Sam to the park every Saturday to toss a baseball around.

Sam allows himself to dream that it'll always be like this, that he and his brother and father will stay here and live their lives together, like this – happy, safe, and healthy – forever, but he knows that's just a fantasy. And sure enough, by February Dad's packed all their stuff and moved them to Blue Earth to stay with Pastor Jim for a few weeks while he takes off on his first hunt in over six months.

Sam supposes he should just be grateful Dad stuck around for Dean's 16th birthday. Deep down, they'd all feared never to see the day.

By the time Sam turns 12 things have pretty much returned to the Winchester normal. Dad's still not taking Dean on hunts because he's waiting for Dean to get back in fighting form, but it won't be long before that happens. Sam knows it.

For his part, Dean's as happy as Sam's ever seen him. He's training hard and looking good, handsomer every day in a way that makes Sam privately seethe with jealousy. It's really not fair having a big brother who's so pretty. And there's a constant stream of girls following him around and calling him, which only fuels the fire for Dean's insatiable sex drive.

Sam's pretty sure Dean hasn't been a virgin for months.

And he's also got his license, which he happily flashes at Sam with the most ridiculous grin on his face every single damned time he gets behind the wheel of the Impala. Dad's let him take her out more and more since Dean turned 16 – even letting him drive it by himself, without Dad being there to supervise – and Dean's been using the car to pick up chicks. Apparently they dig hot dudes with muscle cars, Dean says.

Life goes on, as it is ever so fond of doing, and Dad and Dean do their best to forget that the cancer thing ever happened. Dad makes sure that Dean goes to the hospital every six months for a full check-up, just to be certain the cancer hasn't come back, and Dean complies because he always does what he's told. But aside from that, it would appear to the casual observer that leukemia had never touched the Winchester family at all.

Sam settles back into the routine of school and tries to bury himself in his work. He works hard, harder than most kids his age, and sets his sights on the honour roll. With each passing month he finds himself more determined to steer himself away from the path his father has chosen for him. He dreams of safety and security and family, with holidays celebrated in front of a warm hearth, with steady jobs and happy homes. He visualizes himself further and further away from Lucifer and his plans, thinking that if he runs away far enough, maybe the Devil won't be able to find him.

When Sam reaches his teen years he reaches new levels of volatile, the likes of which would rival even his old man. His youthful innocence has been leeched away by more of the same from a father he'd hoped and prayed would change after everything they went through with Dean. Disappointment has sharpened Sam's tongue and resentment over the choice he was forced to make hardens his heart.

When he reaches his senior year of high school, Sam has got his sights firmly set on escape: he wants to go to college. He applies himself with a zeal so dedicated and manic even Dean can't make fun of it (too busy shaking his head in wonder and apprehension at whatever bug's crawled up his little brother's ass). He wants a full ride to a good school, and he knows that if he just works hard enough, he can get it.

When he does, it's a shallow victory.

Dad is enraged that Sam's plans don't involve hunting and taking care of his family (but that's Dean's job, and Sam tells him so). He accuses Sam of being selfish and self-centered, and Sam takes it with righteous indignation because his father couldn't possibly know how wrong the accusations are, how far from the truth.

In reality, Sam's running away because he's afraid of what staying will do to his family. Now that he's old enough to get gone, it's finally within his control to put some distance between himself and Dean – something he's been itching to do since he was about 14 and realized how close he'd come to killing his brother _with a thought_. It won't be easy leaving his brother behind, whose lust for life has multiplied tenfold since he 'kicked that cancer's ass!' But Sam's willing to do it if it'll keep Dean safe.

As he stands on a lonely stretch of highway, the dark night illuminated only by the flickering street light above, every item he owns stuffed into a worn old duffel bag that used to be Dean's, Sam knows he's made the right decision. He walks determinedly onward, waiting for someone to stop and offer him a ride, and feels relieved for the first time in seven years.

There's an open road ahead, and California calls. He tells himself that nothing is going to stand in his way, privately praying that Lucifer never manages to break free of his cage.

It's a long way to go to get to Stanford.

~Fin~


End file.
